


Four Elizabeths

by dracox_serdriel



Series: Series 3: Unfinished Business [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Abduction, Alternate Season/Series 03, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arson, Asexual Sherlock, Attempted Murder, Betrayal, Case Fic, Drama, Family Annihilator, Forensics, Gen, Graphic descriptions of violence, Hacking, Hacksaw - Freeform, Hiding in Plain Sight, Homeless Network, I Believe in Sherlock Holmes, Inheritance, John Makes Deductions, Kidnapping, Language, London, Loss, Multiple Cases, Murder, Mystery, Oxford, POV Multiple, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, References to Past Drug Use, Revenge, Season/Series 03, Sherlock Makes Deductions, Smuggling, Spies & Secret Agents, Story: The Adventure of the Six Napoleons, The Baker - Freeform, The Burnsider Twins, The Decapitated Man, The Four Busts, The Inside Man, The Medic - Freeform, The Science of Deduction, The Switch, code names, cold cases, doping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-07 20:12:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 33,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1912236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracox_serdriel/pseuds/dracox_serdriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes dedicates himself to unraveling the agenda of The Engineer and revealing her true identity after she kidnaps him and leaves him at a crime scene. Sebastian Moran threatens John Watson and Molly Hooper, forcing Lestrade to use extraordinary measures to protect them. In London, a series of odd incidents involving identical busts of Elizabeth the First draw the attention of police and criminals alike.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Firefly

Sherlock Holmes struggled against his confines and the drugs circulating his system. A haze pervaded his conscious mind, but he gradually became more aware, more alert. This confirmed a GHB cocktail, which kept the subject unconscious but metabolized quickly. Someone had drugged him and abandoned him, unbound but jammed inside a wall.

He moved his hands along the interior and found a breech, but it had a low clearance, a child-size opening, if anything. The space between walls was too narrow for him to bend forward, so he slid through feet-first. A soft _thump_ sounded. 

Sherlock dusted himself off. His coat was absent, which seemed off. He tried to remember the events that brought him here, but all his memories were dark and arid. 

So he focused on the noises, the conversations.

He had asked someone about their past. The Engineer? Yes, she had been with him. What did she say?

_When I was a child, I would wander out at dusk, out to the field near where I roomed. When it was dark enough, I'd lie down in the middle of that field and stare up._

The words returned too slowly, and frustration infected him. He needed to focus on something else, so he examined his surroundings.

He stood in a small room on a piece of plywood. Clearly, it had plugged the opening and fallen when he passed through. He replaced it and found that it concealed the hole completely. A professional cut this sheet, probably for a dumbwaiter or a large laundry shoot. Later, someone else added a tiny handle to the interior side and simply placed it back over the unused opening. Sherlock turned to the rest of the room, which had a used, lived-in feeling to it. It was a child's room.

Conclusion: The construction of the room called for a laundry shoot that was never finished. To save money, the original plywood was simply place over the hole and restyled slightly. The small child whose room this was, upon discovering a secret hideaway, added the handle to ensure that he (or she) could hide inside without anyone being the wiser.

Sherlock left the room for the hallway. He was on the second floor, which had four bedrooms and two bathrooms. The walls had been repainted and scrubbed, but there were still odd crayon and pencil marks.

There was a distinct smell, and it drew him to the stairwell, forgoing an examination of the upstairs rooms. As he walked down the stairs, it occurred to him that the occupants of this house were likely dead.

_And I'd stare up, watching as the fireflies lit up the sky, with the bats above them, snatching one or two here and there. The bats were so dark that it was like watching someone pinch out the flame of a candle._

Finally, his thoughts came together and he recognized the smell: the beginning of smoke, the early whiffs of fire. 

Sherlock moved quickly, determined to obtain as much data as possible without dying of smoke inhalation. He ducked into the living room and stopped in his tracks, surprised.

Sherlock Holmes hated being surprised.

Indeed, the house contained some peripheral oddities that his mind absorbed for later, like the empty frames on the walls and missing decor elements. In fact, the home was devoid of anything that people chronically imbued with sentiment. It looked much like his flat previous to 221 B. 

But the reason he stopped short was the bodies.

Sherlock didn't have time to analyze the details or parse the images, not with the smoke thickening. But, this crime scene might be the only way to capture The Engineer, so he stared and let the visual structure imprint inside his mind palace for later exploration.

Once complete, he considered his options for egress. Any man spotted fleeing a burning building with bodies inside would be an immediate suspect, even to the most idiotic investigative unit, so he couldn't go out the front. He found another door that lead into the back yard through the kitchen.

Which was rapidly filling with smoke.

The flames weren't leaping or dangerous yet, but he had very little in the way of fire retardant and doubted his ability to contain it. So he took exactly half a second to absorb the kitchen: its size, shape, and the location of every object in the room.

Then he ran outside.

Tall bushes obscured the view of the backyard to outsiders, but the only reachable location with cover was a shed. He crouched down and scurried into the small hut, where he discovered his coat thrown over a rucksack. He opened it to find several bottles of water, two towels, and a few other spare items, including his mobile. He switched it back on only to discover its GPS has been disabled, among other key functions. 

_Blue-black. The only sounds were the ones you'd grown too used to to bother to name. I didn't feel happy or safe or content. It felt like I wasn't there. Like I had just dissipated into the shadows and the grass and dirt. I wasn't there, just a symphony of rising lights vanishing into the moonlight._

The Engineer put him here. She took him, by car, to this house, and wedged him in a wall. Did she murder five people just to trap him in a house and burn it down? It seemed so senseless. Certainly there were easier ways to kill him, especially when unconscious. And if she wanted him to die, why bother to leave his coat and supplies for him? 

On the other hand, she hadn't just driven around until she found a murdered family. That couldn't be it. Mycroft said she occasionally revealed criminal activity, and dropping a detective in the middle of a homicide would certainly qualify. He tried to remember more of what she said to him, but he couldn't focus.

The fire roared as it started in earnest. 

He texted his brother for help. It was regrettable, but soon fire control and investigators would arrive. No doubt they'd check the shed for any suspected murder-arsonist that wanted a view of the fire.

Sherlock then turned to his real work. He propped himself up and retreated into his mind palace. 

He began inspecting the kitchen: a large, empty dish soap container on the counter; various bottles of alcohol, half-empty and plugged like Molotov cocktails placed in precarious locations; and an oil rag, quite saturated, near the stovetop. Conclusion: The arsonist utilized materials from the kitchen - such as using the dish soap to thicken the alcohol - to start and expand the fire, which meant that he (statistically more likely) hadn't planned to set the fire or at the very least hadn't properly prepared for it.

Smoke billowed from the sink, but Sherlock couldn't make out whatever was burning. That must've been the origin of the fire; it remained contained and smoking for some time before burning in earnest and spreading. Conclusion: The arsonist had set a slow-burning wick that alerted Sherlock to the fire and provided him the time he needed to escape, all of which meant that he wanted the consulting detective to survive. 

Additional conclusion: The Engineer was the arsonist, statistics be damned. 

He refocused on the living room, where the bodies were.

Two pre-teens, one male and one female, sat in the living room's armchairs. Each one had a single gunshot wound to the forehead from a small caliber weapon. The wife sat on the couch with her husband's head in her lap. From the blood splatter, someone shot her once in the back of the head and repositioned her. Assuming the killer was the husband, he then lay beside her, put his head in her lap, and shot himself in the temple. 

Sherlock turned to the last body in the room. Everything about it was wrong. To being with, it was charred, so he had to approximate an age from the general size.

Sherlock stepped out of his mind palace. Had he imprinted the images wrong? No. But the smoke from the kitchen could have covered the charred scent from the body, so that could be why the mental impression seemed so off. He took a deep breath and returned to his examinations.

The child was three at the oldest. She or he - it was impossible to tell - had been killed with a single gunshot wound to the head while curled up in fetal position, probably while sleeping. The body had been subsequently burned and placed under the coffee table. 

The events of the crime aligned with a typical family annihilator scenario: murder of the family, followed by suicide of the perpetrator, probably the father.

Except for the man shoved into the wall, this last body was the only thing that didn't fit, though it could be the reason someone wanted to burn down the house.

_One day, I'll find my way back to that space, those moments. Maybe I'll be painting a fence, or churning out code, or writing editorials. It's like you said: I could be anybody. And someday, I just might be._

His phone jolted him out of his mind palace. In addition to a dozen missed texts from his brother, Mycroft was calling.

"Mycroft, what is it?" Sherlock answered.

"Sherlock, when you text me with a message like, 'escaped burning house in unknown location require discreet transport' it's best to answer your mobile as soon as it rings."

"Don't act like you're actually concerned."

"The car is waiting for you, but the driver insists you crawl to avoid being seen."

His brother hung up.

 

Sherlock made it to the car without incident, though. Mycroft was clearly having fun at his expense. There was no way anyone would spot him over the incredible fire that consumed the adjacent house.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said. 

"Mycroft. Wasn't expecting you to pick me up personally."

"I was in the area."

"Oh?"

"Oxford."

"I'm in Oxford?"

"Didn't you know?" Mycroft asked. 

"No."

"No? Then how on earth did you get here?"

"How much do you know about The Engineer?"

"Not this again."

Sherlock replied, "Yes, this again. That woman just stuffed me inside a wall, and I need to know why."

"Is that a metaphor?"

"No, Mycroft. She drugged me and brought me to this house. There's a family of five inside, all dead. Now either she meant to burn me alive, which is unlikely given the circumstances and the fact that she could've simply lit me on fire in the trunk of the car - "

"If only," Mycroft interjected.

"- or she has other plans. I need to know everything you know about her. All the files you have on her. Everything you thought she had a hand in."

"You do realize that Sebastian Moran has been taken into custody."

"What?" Sherlock asked. "What happened to John and Molly?"

"Still alive, but this was all days ago, Sherlock."

"Days?"

"Two, to be precise."

"She took me and told me about something. But it doesn't make sense."

"What doesn't make sense?"

"Fireflies."

"What about them?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Obviously, Mycroft, there are none in this area, not the way she described them."

"She could be lying, Sherlock. She does that to everyone."

"I asked her... I can't remember! But she told me about bats and fireflies."

"So a woman known for faking crime scenes, stealing identities, and working with the likes of Moriarty abducted you, drugged you, and left you in a burning house," Mycroft summarized. "And yet, for some reason, you're concerned about the fairy story she told you about flying fauna?"

"Unless she spent time in America," Sherlock said.

Mycroft took a breath. "Ah, you're not listening. It's just as well. We'll have to find a place to store you while I conduct my business in Oxford."

 

 **London**. Sebastian Moran had always been civilized. There was never any reason to be anything else.

Torture played well in the movies, but facts were facts. Professionals never gave up information, and anyone else would cop to anything to make the pain stop. Blackmail and kidnapping worked, sure, but the best way to get someone to spill their guts was to be their ally.

Or at least make them think that.

And that's why Sebastian Moran succeeded where his mentor Moriarty failed. Moran made people feel superior; Moriarty crushed people like the idiots they were. That's what made the two men such excellent partners in crime. Moriarty, the showman, flaunting everything he had with no reprisal from anyone, and Moran, the good soldier, politely holding fast, always ready to strike.

Moran never wanted to take Moriarty's place. He never wanted to inherit his allies, schemes, and pocket-employees. He certainly never wanted to bury the man who gave him everything.

But here he was, handcuffed to a hospital bed, nothing else to do but think on it. Sherlock Holmes was just one person who managed to murder the best man he had ever known. And two more walked free right now. It boiled his blood. 

He straightened up. Practicality demanded that he be poised, no matter how he felt.

"Mr. Moran," someone said as she entered the room.

"Colonel Moran," Sebastian corrected. "Royal Marines. Retired, technically, but never really out."

"My apologies, Colonel Moran. I'm Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan," she replied. "Do you remember me?"

"Nah, love. Should I?" 

"We spoke, briefly, just after you were out of intensive care."

"Ah, I remember someone trying to get something out of me, but can't really say who. That was you?"

"It was. Do you know why you're here?"

"Think I was shot, wasn't I?"

"By a sniper, and someone restricted your breathing – "

"Put a plastic bag over my head," Moran interrupted. "Sorry, that's hardly a thing you can make better with euphemisms, now is it?"

"The people who did it are still at large. The doctors asked us to give you two days for recovery after our first interview, but I need to ask you some questions about that day. Right now, all we have is a vague description of the woman."

"First things first. I need to call Tillie Tremblay from Farnsworth and Strother."

"The legal firm?" Donavan asked. "You want your lawyer?"

"Is there some kind of problem?"

"No, but victims don't usually call lawyers when being questioned."

"Except for these," Moran said as he pulled on his handcuffs. "If you only saw me as a victim, I wouldn't be chained to the bed, now would I?"

"We have witnesses that have accused you of a number of crimes."

"Yeah, well, those two individuals should learn how to mind. Maybe they shouldn't be so keen to comment on things they don't understand."

"Sorry?"

"Just saying, if I was them, I'd keep my trap shut as long as I wanted to live."

"Are you threatening their lives?" 

"I'll be needing that call, love," Moran replied quietly.

Things like that always slipped out when he didn't keep his thoughts pointed to civility, and right now, Sebastian Moran seethed over John Watson and Molly Hooper.


	2. Elizabeth One

**London, two weeks later**. Molly Hooper stormed down the halls of Saint Bart's until she arrived at the door labeled DOCTOR AMELIA GARNETT.

She took a breath before she knocked.

"Come in."

"Hello, Dr. Garnett. We possibly have a breech in security. Several reports I've filed in the past two weeks have gone missing. The case numbers are still in the index, but all the materials are gone. Hard and digital copies. No reference number, so no one's checked them out. They're just missing."

"You lost reports before filing?"

"No. These were all filed. I mean, they are filed with numbers in the system."

Garnett interrupted, "You think this is a problem to bring to my desk?"

"Each of these bodies came in separately, but I've reason to believe that the four missing files are connected to each other as well as a fifth body that I autopsied today. All suspected homicides," Molly explained.

"Our files are a bit off, and clearly that bothers you, but you said the case numbers are in the system, so you've already filed them, yeah? They're hardly lost. Submit a request when you file this next report of yours," Garnett replied. "I'm disappointed. You're talking as if you're fresh out of school."

"All our evidence in four suspected homicides is missing, we can't ignore that. Unless you've forgotten that security has been a problem at this facility." 

"Molly, Doctor Hooper. In the past month, we've had an attack on a staff member, a murder on the grounds - "

"I am very aware," Molly interrupted. After all, she had been the one attacked.

"Fair enough. But with the investigations, and Barry Thomas and Doctor Greenberg suspended pending its outcome... not to mention the staff is being pulled out of their labs and meetings constantly for questioning... with all that going on, is it really a surprise that some reports are missing? That the filing's a bit off?"

"You're saying you think this is just a clerical error?"

"No, I think it's a human error caused by a lot of people who are scared and overworked, and we all have you to thank for that."

"Say that again," Molly said quietly. 

"I didn't mean that last bit," Garnett said apologetically. She continued, "If the case numbers are still in the system, then the materials are on hand, maybe not accessible at the moment, but we've got them. So file a request for the reports, and as soon as they're available, you'll get them. But whatever you do, don't come to my office like the building's on fire."

"Right, then," Molly replied as she left.

She considered Garnett's comment as she walked back to her office. What Garnett said was true; she connected Thomas and Greenberg to Sebastian Moran's network, but then again, they were the ones wrapped up in a criminal conspiracy. Apparently, she was now a complete pariah in the building, down to her reports being mishandled. That, or someone was trying to cover up five homicides. At this point, she didn't know which would be more difficult to handle.

 

John Watson knocked on the ornate door marked 26A. 

"Ah, John Watson?" a man said from behind the door.

"Err, yes," he replied. "Mr. Tyler Waverly?"

The door opened to reveal a scrawny man in his early fifties. He waved John into the flat.

"I've left everything as it is," Tyler said. "An officer and a constable came by after I called nine nine nine, but they said they couldn't do much more than file a report. I mean, they snapped some photos and put some things in baggies or something. Then they handed me some information so I could get a report for my insurance company."

Tyler led John into the sitting room. Glass was everywhere. Two decorative tables had been overturned in the midst of a small, broken statue. The door to the balcony had been shattered.

"I came in after my bath, you see, and there he was, right here in my sitting room, like he belonged. He had on this rucksack, full, mind you. When he saw me, well, that's when he started to throw things around, breaking things."

"So, you didn't hear him before you came out of the bath?" 

Tyler replied, "That's what's got me so... like this, you see? I didn't hear him. He must've been all around my flat. He took paintings from almost every room. While I was in the shower, and not a peep, not a footfall."

"So, he sees you, and starts throwing things around? What about this statue, then?"

"The bust."

"Sorry, right, bust," John said. "Did he have it in his hands? You think he would've taken it with him if you hadn't come in?"

"Eh, no," Tyler replied. "Now you mention it, I think it was already broken."

"So he smashed it before he ever saw you?"

"He must've done."

"Right, so he came in here through the balcony. We're on the second floor, so that's possible. Then he goes all around your flat collecting paintings and putting them into a... errr... you said a rucksack?"

"I didn't actually see that bit, but yeah."

John continued, "Then he... where was the bust?"

"On that table," Tyler said pointing to the end of the room.

"So he took it from here, which is across the room from the balcony, but he smashed it here, in front of the door?"

"Seems so."

"Tell me about this bust."

"It was just a bust," Tyler replied. "I picked it up secondhand. Elizabeth the First, lovely piece. Paid about thirty pounds at the Wilder Family Shoppe for it."

"Look at this," John said as he pointed to the floor. "See all these? They're handprints."

"Nah, he was wearing gloves," Tyler replied. "I saw as much."

"Fine, then they're glove marks. You know what they tell me?"

"What do they tell you?" Tyler asked, rapt with attention.

"They tell me that your burglar smashed this bust open and then riffled around inside the broken pieces. Any reason why he'd do that? Was it set with a rare stone of some kind?"

"What? No, no, no. Actually, hang on."

He disappeared into another room before returning with a tablet, which he handed to John.

He continued, "See, I've photos of it. I take pictures of all my collection, and you can see it's just a plain bust. If you want, I can email these to you. Would that help?"

"Absolutely, let me just type my email in."

As he typed, Tyler continued, "But like I said, it's just a decorative bust. The robber probably just knocked it over or dropped it."

"If he knocked it over, it'd be broken over there where you had it," John replied. "And if he fell and broke it, then he'd put his hands down once to get up, not all over the place. Was it hollow? Maybe he thought you hid cash or jewelry inside."

"No, it was solid, and I didn't hide anything in it!" Tyler said, clearly at the end of his rope. "I've been robbed! Why do you care about some stupid statue that I bought on impulse a few days ago!"

John took a minute to consider his words. He was not Sherlock Holmes, and he wasn't going to start sounding like the man in his absence. With that being acknowledged, Mr. Tyler Waverly had been quite ridiculous, and he needed to be informed. 

John said, "Listen, Mr. Waverly, anyone could believe a burglar came in here, that's fine. But a burglar packing up, what, seven paintings in a knapsack, then climbing back down the balcony?"

"Eight paintings, and it was a rucksack."

"Burglars don't steal fine art with rucksacks."

"He only took the small pieces. Twenty-five by twenties, thirty-five by twenty-fives,* that kind of thing."

"So he stole the paintings, which have questionable market value, but left your computer and electronics?"

"Those paintings are each worth thousands of pounds!"

"Which is why you insured them."

"How did you know about my insurance?"

"Actually, I guessed," John replied. "I mean, either someone who knew you, or rather, who knew the specific art you have in your flat, climbed onto your balcony with a knapsack - sorry, rucksack - to steal from you while you were home, or you scared off an intruder and decided to claim that he stole the art so you could cash in the insurance money."

"I called you because one of the officers told me you were some detective who helped in hopeless cases!"

"Actually, I'm a doctor, and even I can tell your story doesn't make much sense. How long do you think it'll take for the insurance company to ask questions? They'll have their own investigation you know."

"Someone stole from me! I am the victim here!"

"That's technically true, someone did break in, but he didn't steal your paintings. I'm guessing if I poked around your flat, I'd find wherever it is you stashed them, since you haven't had time to hide them elsewhere. Tell me, did you plan on selling your not-stolen works on the black market? Something tells me you're clever like that."

"Clever? What are you on about?" Tyler asked, but his voice revealed his interest, as if John was offering him defrauding for dummies. 

"Think about it. You report the paintings stolen, then you find a fence or sell them yourself, it doesn't matter, because as soon as the items are circulating on the black market, it confirms your story that they're stolen. Then you get the money from the illegal sales as well as the money from the insurance company. Very well done, now that I think of it. The only trouble you might find is the insurance investigators. They are very good at finding fences, which means you'd be better off handling the black market sales yourself, otherwise they'll find the guy and flip him." 

"Good, I hope they actually identify the man who broke into my home!" Tyler shouted. 

John had pushed the man too far, and he clearly had no intention of amending his police statement about the not-stolen art. He was also terrified. It was possible that he was just incredibly stubborn, but John had a feeling that Tyler Waverly might be desperate for money. So he changed course.

"Did you get a look at him?" John asked. 

"What?"

"The intruder, did you see him?"

"I told you, I did."

"What did he look like?"

"He was wearing black cloths, a ski mask, and gloves."

"Height? Eye color? Build?" John asked.

"No, I don't know. I guess he was tall."

"Right, well, if I find him, I'll give you a call," John said. "Oh, and I'm sorry for suggesting that you tried to defraud your insurance company."

He left the flat as quickly as possible. Once on the sidewalk, he dialed Lestrade.

"John, you all right?" Lestrade said.

"I'm fine," John replied. "But that break-in you put me on to? I don't think the paintings were stolen."

"But that place was a mess, at least according to the constable."

"Someone broke in and smashed up a statue, not sure why. But the paintings? I think the owner just hid them."

"What makes you say that? You spot some bit of plaster on his shoe that can only be found in art galleries or something?"

"What? No," John replied. "He said the burglar put eight paintings in a rucksack and left down the balcony. No need for deductions. Anyone who believed that must be mad."

"It could happen."

"In cartoons," John said. "You think a man, dressed all in black, could climb down a balcony with a sack of paintings and go unseen by every neighbor? Not to mention anyone walking past. No. His paintings are insured. So he used the break in to get insurance money."

"Right, well, glad you looked into it then."

"I might've given him a few tips on how to evade detection on the black market," John replied. "But purely by accident."

"You what?"

"I was trying to get a confession. He's very wily."

"You're joking."

"Only enough to keep me out of trouble."

"Right, well, listen, I've got to go. We've got some crazy hacker or whatever they're calling themselves these days running us around - "

John interrupted, "Hacktivist."

"Sorry?"

"Hackers sometimes call themselves hacktivist."

"Yeah, sure. We've got one of them, calls himself Hacksaw, and he's been obstructing a homicide investigation. We can catch up later."

"Good luck."

 

The Wilder Family Shoppe was an antique store that the Wilders owned for the past fifty years. It had an unusually good location with an odd assortment of customers.

"Are you looking for something in particular, Dr. Watson?" the shopkeeper asked.

"Sorry, I didn't catch your name."

"Anthony Wilder."

"Anthony. Actually, a friend of mine bought something here," John replied. "I was wondering if you could tell me anything about it."

"You want information about something we sold?"

John sensed that Anthony didn't want to waste his time on someone unwilling to buy, so he said, "In case you had something similar."

"Ah, of course," Anthony replied. "What was your friend's name?"

"Waverly. It was a bust of Elizabeth the First."

"I remember that piece, came in with a few other items from an estate. The heiress asked our shop to handle the sale of individual items."

"Do you have a website or an inventory?" John asked. "I only ask because everything for the house needs to be approved by the wife. I'm sure she'd love it, but, you know."

Lying tended to get away from John, but even this one surprised him. He didn't have feelings for Molly, anymore than he did for Sherlock, yet the flat had acquired a strong sense of family, like he was living with a sister he actually got on with and their dotty aunt.

"I see, I see. Yeah. I've got pictures of that whole estate if you'd like a copy to show her. Can even show you all the remaining pieces and set them aside."

"Fantastic."

 

John thought about the bust of Elizabeth the First. Anthony refused to give him the name of the estate, but given the number and rarity of the items, he probably could identify the previous owners with some research.

Of course, there was every possibility that the burglar was just a prankster, put up to it by friends. But why would he break the bust inside, then search around in its remnants? Anyone who wanted to extract something from it could simply steal the bust and dismantle it elsewhere. Unless, of course, the intruder had no means to escape while carrying it. No, that wouldn't make sense, either. Baring extreme impulse control issues, anyone capable of breaking into that flat would bring a bag.

John couldn't make sense of it, but a mystery object inside the bust seemed more reasonable that a fine art thief with a rucksack. Maybe he wanted this to be a complex case because the more he worked, the less time he had to worry about Sherlock. The past two weeks had been filled with bland days, the kind he vaguely remembered before the war.

His thoughts abruptly stopped as he approached 221 B. He had returned later than he'd planned, but it wasn't late enough for Molly and Mrs. Hudson to have turned in. So why was every light in the flat out?

"Mrs. Hudson?" he said as he came in. "Molly?"

He climbed the stairs and spotted someone in the living room.

"Molly?"

"Hardly," Sherlock Holmes replied from the couch. "What took you so long?"

> >   
> * Twenty-five by twenty and thirty-five by twenty-five are standard canvas sizes in centimeters. These size comparisons are approximately equivalent.   
>  25 x 20 cm = 10 x 8 inches  
>  35 x 25 cm = 14 x 10 inches


	3. Cold Snapper

"What took _me_ so long?" John repeated in equal parts fury and confusion. "Me? You left me and Molly I in a car two weeks ago, telling us you'd be along in an hour!"

"I was abducted and left inside a burning house."

"What?"

"Not entirely sure as to why, but I'm getting closer. Over the past weeks members of the Homeless Network collected intelligence on related crimes going back thirty years. Why haven't you turned on the lights?" 

"You're the one that's been sitting in the dark, why haven't you?" John asked as he banged the lights on. "What have you done to my flat?"

All the walls and the windows were covered with news clippings, official police files, forensics photos, and scribbled notes. 

"Your flat? This is our flat."

"No, you're dead. This is my flat. And where's Molly?"

"She's looking over something in my room."

"Her room, actually, which it will be until Sebastian Moran is put on trial."

"Ah. Forgot about him, more pressing matters, John."

"You can't just show up whenever you'd like after disappearing for weeks and expect that we'll drop everything to help you."

"My brother can be insufferable about covert operations," Sherlock replied, not really listening. "He assured me you had been contacted. Never mind. The case at hand must be dealt with immediately, It is the to figuring out The Engineer."

"The Engineer?" John repeated. "Sherlock, Sebastian Moran abducted us trying to find you. He's threatened both me and Molly - dunno if you care - and he's got the resources to do it. How about we put him away before we waste time on anything else?"

Still ignoring John, Sherlock pointed to the largest board. "This was the house I was trapped in. Five dead from gunshot wounds. One burned before the rest. Arson consumed most of the house, but I was able to place everything in my mind palace before it was destroyed."

"Okay, so what are these other cases, then?"

"They're nothing. Six cases, six! In the past fifty years, these six cases alone have some similarities to this most recent case. Worchester 1982. Curlew and Hobby confirmed the original investigation's conclusion as well as Hartlepool 1988. Osprey and Wagtail likewise confirmed the murders in Telford 1996."

"Who are these people? Wagtail and Hobby?"

"Do pay attention John! Members of the Homeless Network. Mycroft insisted on code names. For his imposition and your reference, his name is Blue Tit."

"What about me?"

"Pintail."

"And you?"

"Swift."

"And what about me?" Molly asked as she emerged from her room. "Do I have a code name as well?"

"Turnstone," Sherlock replied. He continued as if there had been no interruption. "Northampton 2010. Family annihilation followed by arson. The father, Jacob Quincy, assumed to be the perpetrator. Roller and Tern are currently correcting the record."

"An explosive fire?" Molly asked as she glanced over the board.

Sherlock continued in his bored voice. "Equipment failure produced excess carbon monoxide on the second floor. Faulty heaters started the fire on the ground floor. The carbon monoxide initially prevented fire from spreading to the top floor, but the eventual lack of oxygen created a vacuum, which dragged in the remaining air, pressurized the main floor, and caused an explosion. All very basic and very boring."

John said, "What you're saying is this house had a carbon monoxide leak and a devastating fire, both from separate, faulty equipment that failed on the same night, and I'm guessing there must've been a defective alarm system as well. So are these the unluckiest people on the planet, or was someone trying to kill them?"

"Reasonable conclusions," Sherlock said, sounding surprised. "But incorrect. The Quincy family let the house, and the facilities management of the rental company certified everything weeks before; thus the assumption that the father orchestrated everything. But with limited inquiry it became obvious that maintenance saved a considerable amount over several decades by falsifying certifications and reports, checking requirements once every three years rather than each year or every six months. Roller and Tern agreed to set the record straight."

"Someone named Roller figured this out?" John asked.

"No, don't be ridiculous. My deductions solved this case, but to maintain my death, others had to handle the day to day and physical elements."

John vividly remembered Sherlock forcing him to wear a wire and a camera during an investigation.

"All a waste of time!" Sherlock continued. "Killdeer and Puffin are keeping me appraised of the extradition of the Bridgewater killer, while Waxwing, Rook, and Shrike are all handling the polygamist framing in Ashford. Two weeks squandered correcting blunders so obvious a review panel could have identified them. No closer to The Engineer."

Molly and John shared a look of confusion.

Molly went first and asked, "Bridgewater killer?"

"Bridgewater 1991. The Millard family found shot dead, save for one Rita Millard, eldest daughter, missing and presumed dead for the past twenty years. It only took a manner of minutes to confirm that Miss Millard was the killer and fled to Germany under a new identity, Diana Wimble, currently being extradited back to England."

"Polygamist framing?" John asked.

Sherlock sighed and replied, "Ashford 2007. The Hasting family was murdered, assumed to be murder-suicide by the father, Leo. The initial investigation missed the fact that Leo Hastings was a polygamist with at least one other family, consisting of Emily Hastings and her two children. Emily's father discovered that his son-in-law had another family and sought revenge. Spent almost an entire day on this case, nothing to show for it."

"Sounds to me like you're on fire," Molly said.

Sherlock's expression became confused, and John couldn't hold back his smile. It wasn't every day that someone put Sherlock Holmes off one of his rants.

She continued, "I mean, you solved three cases from the past thirty years and found a fugitive believed to be dead. All without exposing yourself. The last time you solved two cases in a row you said you were 'on fire.'" 

"Ah, yes, well, then," Sherlock said awkwardly. "To be clear, I have spent two weeks of my skill and the real crime has gone unsolved."

Silence filled the room.

"Real crime?" John asked. "You mean the deaths of six families don't qualify as real crimes?"

"Awkward?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, completely," Molly replied. 

"These other cases were poorly investigated, but not one is the right crime," Sherlock said, annoyed he had to clarify.

"You do realize we've no idea what you're talking about," John said.

"Actually, I think I might," Molly said. "I autopsied five bodies, separately, over the past two weeks. I thought the reports were missing, but – "

"Mycroft arranged evaluations under an umbrella term," Sherlock replied. "Again, you're focusing on the wrong things. The Engineer put me in a burning house with five bodies. She's either recreating a crime, which doesn't seem to be the case, or wanted my attention on this crime."

"In the future, you should start with that," John replied. "And what's Dollhouse?"

"Mycroft classified the documents, or something like that," Molly said. "He controls the only copies. Investigations like that are branded with a short hand."

"Yes, yes, what did you find?" Sherlock demanded.

"None of the five individuals I autopsied were related," Molly replied. "They all had false names assigned to them, but I ran DNA against the system anyway. And it explained all the inconsistencies I noted in the reports. None of them died of gunshot wounds, for example. The DNA tests came up because the bodies were donated to science. They were allocated to medical programs in Oxford."

"So these Dollhouse people weren't murdered?" John asked.

"No, but someone went out of their way to make it look that way," Molly replied. "I can tell that even though the post-mortem burns removed a lot of evidence."

"There was blood spatter," Sherlock said. "Before the house burned down, consistent with the trajectory of the gunshots."

"I can't confirm without blood samples, but it's possible someone else's blood was used to replicate the patterns of living bodies."

"Why?" John asked. "If the house was burned down on purpose, why bother with forensics that would burn up?"

"Because she wanted me to see it," Sherlock said. "I reviewed all the cases even close to resembling the crime, going back fifty years, and none of them match. Not one replicates the scenario of the fire. None of them has a victim killed at least fourteen hours before and burned at the scene."

"I think we need some tea," Molly suggested.

 

 **The next morning...** The pounding just wouldn't stop. At first, John thought it was a headache, but after it continued for several minutes, he realized someone was beating down the door. He got out of bed and donned his robe. 

The knocking continued relentlessly.

"All right, all right!" he yelled as he came out of his room. 

Molly's door popped open, and she asked, "John, who is that? Oi, where is everything?"

As of four hours ago, Sherlock Holmes had filled the living room of the flat with boards, case files, and equipment for various experiments, yet now it was completely empty, as if the consulting detective had been nothing more than a shared hallucination between John and Molly.

"Where's Sherlock?" he asked. 

"Dunno."

The increased volume of the knocking drew John to the door. No sooner had he opened it than Lestrade pushed past him.

"Where the hell have you been?" Lestrade demanded. "I've been at your door for fifteen minutes!"

With that, he marched up the stairs.

"Molly, good you're not dead." 

"Why should I be?" she asked. 

"For one thing, I've been outside making enough noise raise every neighbor on the bloody street!"

"Why didn't you call?" Molly asked.

"What are you on about? I did call. I've been calling for nearly thirty minutes. Neither of you picked up, not even Mrs. Hudson. Then here I am, outside your bloody door, and here you are, completely unawares. I've got to ask, am I interrupting?" 

"Interrupting what?" John asked.

She said, "Never mind that, why are you here at half past five?"

"I'm here to take you two into protective custody."

 

Philip Anderson had worked horrific crime scenes, but this one was particularly shocking. Two bodies dumped right in the open outside the Broadway Post Office along Caxton Street.

"Right in our backyards, eh?" Sally Donovan commented.

"I'd say," he replied. "They weren't killed here. No blood spatter for one thing, and no signs of a struggle. We haven't done samples yet, but I did get fingerprints."

"I'll take a guess at cause of death. What do you reckon? A dozen gunshot wounds?"

Anderson nodded. "Six in the male victim. Seven in the female, who I'm fairly certain is Riley Wendell." 

"Wendell. She's the one that was mixed up with Sebastian Moran, wasn't she?"

"Soon as I said that to Lestrade, he ran straight off," he replied. "Even though I mentioned we're still waiting on confirmation from prints."

"Looks enough like that photo we've been circulating for weeks," Donovan said. 

"Can't really tell if the bloke is Gregory Wendell, not with his wounds. Have to wait on confirmation."

Both their mobiles rang with a text alert.

"You get this message about the killer being an assassin called The Baker?" Donovan asked. "That's got to be some kind of spam or something."

"I don't think it is. I sent in the crime scene photos to run through Interpol and our crimes database. Lestrade was certain this was a professional job."

"But, seriously, The Baker?"

"Named because every job he's done has used exactly thirteen bullets, a baker's dozen. Bit weird, isn't it? Thirteen bullets. On top of that, the killer only ever uses revolvers, which means he must reload three times to complete the hit."

"Seems like he uses two guns," Donovan suggested. "The ballistics reports from some of his other hits show he uses flat nose, thirty-eight caliber bullets, but forensics concluded they weren't all fired from the same gun."

"Then he'd still have to reload one of them, since six bullets is the max for most revolvers."

"Well, after you've shot a guy twelve times, you really think he's got a chance of escaping while you reload?" Donovan asked. "I knew this day would be no good, soon as I got out of bed. I've got a few to interview before I catch up with Lestrade. You'll call me with news?"

Anderson nodded.

 

Sherlock Holmes paced in the basement in 221 B, surrounded by the walls of evidence he moved from the upstairs flat the night before. 

He couldn't remember properly, but he knew that he had spoken with The Engineer before he blacked out. Whatever she used to drug him made him forget two full days, and only bits and pieces of the conversation broke the silence.

_It felt like I wasn't there. Like I had just dissipated into the shadows and the grass and dirt... just a symphony of rising lights vanishing into the moonlight._

That last bit was clear. It must have been the last thing she said to him before she left, but why did she tell him a story about sitting outside and watching fireflies? Wouldn't it have been more sensible to tell him about the crime that inspired the house fire she was about to set? She spoke to him, so it was logical to assume that he spoke to her, no matter how drug-addled he happened to be. What question did he ask to elicit a response about fireflies? And why hadn't Mycroft given him copies of the files on The Engineer? It had been weeks since he asked.

In need of distraction, Sherlock riffled through one of the boxes he brought down from the living room. A small notebook tumbled out. It looked like one of John's, but it was new. Why should he need a new notebook? Without Sherlock consulting on cases, surely John had no reason to take notes.

He scanned through several pages dedicated to the most mind-numbing crimes imaginable: petty theft, pickpockets, lover's quarrels leading to murder. Sherlock didn't recognize anything, which could only mean that John was solving crimes without him.

 _Boring_ crimes, of course, but crimes just the same.

The last page mentioned a broken bust, an insurance scam, and a man named Anthony Wilder. The citation suggested that the burglar tried to find something inside the broken statue, which was curious. Sherlock stared for a moment at the pictured taped to the page. He recognized it; in fact, he'd seen it quite recently.

The argument upstairs suddenly became much louder. Sherlock made for the door to demand silence, but before he could reach it, Mycroft burst in.

"Ah, little brother," he said, "time for a field trip."

 

"Donovan," she said as she answered her mobile.

"Where are you?" Lestrade asked.

"Was cleared for a trip to Woodhill Pirson. I rang several times and left messages... figured you'd be all tied up at Baker Street for the day."

"No, but it longer than I thought. Listen, be careful with Moran. He's all polite until he pays someone to kill you."

"If we had evidence to link him to the two bodies from this morning, I wouldn't be spending my afternoon at the Closed Supervision Centre, now would I?"

"Right, then, call me before you start back."

 

Mycroft convinced Lestrade that he could protect Molly and John at one of his secure facilities better than shoving them into a random safe house. 

He then pilfered both their mobiles and loaded them into a car with Sherlock. It took three hours to reach the super-secret location, and when they left the car, they found themselves in an enclosed garage. Mycroft led them through a heavily locked door and into an enormous room. It had the makings of a large library: stacks of shelves filled with volumes bound with pinch shells or ringed binders, cabinets that clearly accommodated a complex filing system, and a very large area dedicated to what seemed to be museum pieces.

"Where are we?" John asked.

"An archive warehouse," Mycroft replied. "Containing reports, case files, data collection, and anything else we have ever tied to the individual known as The Engineer."

"Which section?" Molly asked.

"Section? No, my dear, this warehouse is dedicated to her exploits entirely." 

Sherlock didn't find that comment surprising. "Only confirmed involvement?"

"Per your request, I've added a liberal amount of 'possible cases'," Mycroft replied. "Crimes and events she may have had a hand in, but you hardly provided adequate parameters. That, and by necessity, any cases that we've come across that bare similarities of any kind to her work are included here, even those that occurred before her time, as some individuals become inspired by historical affairs. Everything is clearly marked." 

"Sorry, this entire place is, what, The Engineer museum?" John asked.

"So to speak," Mycroft replied.

Sherlock rushed off to some distant corner and disappeared behind the shelves.

"Why are we here?" Molly asked. "There're no bodies here for me to analyze."

"And contrary to popular assumption, I do have a life," John added.

Mycroft gave a small smirk. "Forgive me, but knowing my brother's propensity for obsession, I thought it best for him to have people around who can stand him."

"I'm not sure we qualify," John said. 

"So we're here to babysit him?" Molly asked.

"Ensure that he's fed and clothed, or at least has trousers on. I doubt he'll sleep, so I won't hold you responsible for that. And I didn't lie to Lestrade, you are under strict protection here, you will be safe. I'll come collect you in a few days."

John considered the facility again. He said, "I've met this woman. She can't be more than thirty. There's no way this entire place is dedicated to her. Most criminal cases have a file I can fit in my hands."

"Erroneous assumptions!" Sherlock shouted from afar.

"Indeed," Mycroft said. "A case file is for investigators building a legal case against certain individuals. That model is affective for most crimes, but in situations involving more nuance, such as foreign and domestic allies, assets, spies, and other agents, we need a more... comprehensive system."

"Allies? Agents?" John asked. "Are you saying The Engineer worked for you at one point?"

"Goodness no," Mycroft replied. "Don't let the terminology fool you. They may be on our side or even in our employ, but that hardly makes them trustworthy in all scenarios. In fact, we can only rely on some assets when dealing with specific enemies. That's why complex and complete documentation is so important."

"So, errr, this woman, she's some kind of... frenemy?" Molly asked. 

"Seems to me like she has her own agenda," John said. "Is that right, Mycroft?"

But he was gone.

 

Lestrade knew something was wrong when he couldn't get anyone on the line. He kept at his desk, trying to catch a lead on The Baker or at least discover where the Wendells fled before their deaths. 

Then Donovan sent him a text.

> FROM: Donovan  
> MESSAGE: Riot and fire at Woodhill. Signs of breakout.

He responded with his own text: "What do we know?"

> FROM: Donovan  
> MESSAGE: Unconfirmed. 4 prisoners dead and 2 guards injured. 2 attempted escapees recovered. Head count still running.

Lestrade bit his lip before sending, "Moran?"

> FROM: Donovan  
> MESSAGE: MIA. Possibly injured or dead.

He sat back at in his chair. Something told him that Moran wasn't the kind of man to die in a riot or a fire. 


	4. The Duplicate

**The Wilder Family Shoppe, London**. Anthony Wilder presented a calm and confident demeanor. It wasn't his nature to sit still, but he taught himself composure, as it was a vital asset in his line of work. Convincing someone to purchase a desk lamp for five thousand quid required two things: an incredible knowledge of antiques and a specific kind of poise that radiated confidence. It took work, and some days were harder than others. 

Today had been one of those days. He went through his nightly routine, checking the tills and balancing the book. At half past eight, he put on his coat and ducked out the back door, double-checking that it locked behind him.

Before he could turn toward his car, something wrapped around his neck. He yelled, but a rag covered his mouth and nose, muffling him. Panic and fear gave him strength to fight, but the struggle was short-lived. After only a few furious seconds, Anthony blacked out.

 

Molly Hooper was not a detective. After one day of slogging through countless files of random events supposedly related to The Engineer, she wanted to quit. Her expertise started and ended with the human body, complete or partial, alive or dead, and all the bodies here were documented in photos. 

Sherlock occasionally collaged a crime, likely because he thought it was important. One incident in 2010 involved the funds from offshore accounts vanishing, attributed to a hacker called Hacksaw. The money reappeared over the next year, distributed to charitable funds as well as families affected by the dumping of toxic materials by Granite Flight Engineering Corporation, which had skated on legal and civil penalties due to a loophole. In 2008, Colonel Lysander Stark's body was discovered after his disappearance six months before. The autopsy revealed that he died of starvation and suffered continuous torture for the duration of his captivity.

Molly didn't like the contrast. On one hand, The Engineer redistributed illegal funds from a corrupt corporation to those it had harmed; on the other, she had abducted a man and mercilessly tortured him for half a year.

The other events were less extreme. The Engineer's preferred trick was reporting a body with a GPS-enabled mobile. The responding officers would find drugs, weapons, murder victims, and even the occasional missing person, though they never found the caller. In other situations, she mailed incriminating video or audio files to reporters or police. Rarely, a formal witness mentioned "some kid" coming to the rescue, the assumption being that only a teenager or a child would carry a slingshot, which The Engineer favored as a weapon.

Molly shifted to make herself more comfortable and knocked over a small stack of files that John had assembled.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled as she restored them.

"Actually, I'm glad, I need a break. Sherlock put me onto looking up patterns in her identities."

"I imagine. She must have a lot of them."

John nodded and said, "I was looking at her stolen identities, you know like Elena Wilhelm-Glass and Indigo Kendall Berwyn, thinking maybe she had a thing for using three names."

"Don't be idiotic," Sherlock snapped, interrupting. "Stolen identities would not present with a linguistic pattern but an opportunistic one, and had she left any indications for such a thing, my dear brother surely would have found her by now. No, three names would be a foolish choice. Not out of the ordinary entirely but enough so that even you would pick up on it quickly."

"So these stolen names or identities or whatever would be connected by the victims themselves?" John asked. 

Sherlock said, "In the dozens of names used, she has yet to make that mistake, which in and of itself is a pattern. Assuming someone else's identity, especially someone still living, is dangerous, yet she does it often. That means, to her at least, the benefits of a living identity outweigh the risk."

"You mean like Indigo Berwyn?" Molly suggested. "She was able to work at the Yard without anyone being the wiser."

"Poor example," Sherlock replied. "An outlier in her general activity. She needn't bother with an identity like Elena Wilhelm-Glass, which she used to assume a position with limited background examination. No, the benefit here is not the validity but the data. A name is one thing, all the things that go with the name are another. Hometown. Mother's maiden name. Parent's jobs. Medical history. Education. Teachers. Childhood friends. Pets. Not to mention all the ridiculous 'Where did you learn that?' or 'How did you know that?' questions."

"Couldn't she just make that up?" Molly asked.

"She would have to remember exactly what she said to everyone she spoke to. Not impossible but tedious and easy to make a mistake. But with an existing identity, all that data is already available. A clever mask. Since there's no need to make choices, she conceals herself completely."

"So I've just been wasting my time?" John asked.

"No, identifying a pattern in her false names would be useful," Sherlock replied.

"You just said there weren't any patterns!" John objected.

"Sometimes I wonder if you haven't rather lost your hearing. I said there isn't any pattern in the identities she's _stolen_ , but her false names, the aliases that she creates, those would be a different story."

Sherlock suddenly rushed away, as if an idea summoned him.

"At least he used full sentences," Molly said to John.

"I really wish people like Moran and Moriarty and The Engineer would just go on permanent holiday," John said. "Chasing after regular criminals is one thing. This is just... ridiculous."

"If this really is just one person, she must have support somewhere. If nothing else, she must have some way to get medical aid, emergencies and basic care."

"That's kind of brilliant," John said. "Well done, Molly."

She wasn't listening. She had uncovered the paperwork she'd written for project Dollhouse, and it drew in all her attention.

"Molly?" John asked. "You okay?"

"Yeah, errr, Mycroft gave you a mobile, yeah?"

"A burner," John said as he pulled it from his pocket. 

"I'll probably need it for a while."

 

 **London**. The headlines embellished the escape of Sebastian Moran and four other prisoners, and the Yard received hundreds of calls that reported sightings of the escapees here, there, everywhere. Lestrade didn't think his day could get much worse.

Suddenly, Donovan was in front of his desk.

"Don't you knock?" he blurted.

"Door was open."

"Right, sorry. You have something?"

"According to the coroner's report, both Wendells showed signs of being on ice. Time of death was about twelve hours before they were frozen," Donovan replied.

Lestrade sat back in his seat. "So they could've been killed days before we found them?"

"Apparently. No way to be certain how long they were frozen. I'll admit, I wasn't sold on this being Moran, but keeping the bodies until you can dump them in plain sight? That's a clear message."

"You thought someone else put a hit out on the Wendells?"

"The Wendells had plenty of enemies," Donovan replied. "Not to mention Moran was a Category A inmate with no blood relatives, so - "

Lestrade interrupted, "What about his wife?"

"Wife? No, I went looking when he was in surgery. No marriage license came up, and he never mentioned anything for an emergency contact. He had some lawyer handling everything."

"Dr. Henri Schlessinger," Lestrade read off the screen. "Married to Moran for thirty years in Germany. Never bothered with a license here in England. Looks like she visited him once, two days before the breakout."

"So we still don't have - " 

The phone rang.

"Lestrade," he answered. He listened for several minutes before replying, "Right. I'm on my way."

"You've got a lead?"

Lestrade hesitated as he said, "Not on Moran or The Baker."

"So what is it then?"

"Two days ago, a man was abducted from his place of business and held captive. He was found this afternoon."

Donovan asked, "You wanna drop everything to look into a kidnapping? Since when?"

"Since the victim has done nothing but ask for John Watson."

 

 **Saint Bart's Hospital**. As per the request of the nurses, Lestrade approached Anthony Wilder with caution.

"Mr. Wilder? I'm DI Lestrade."

"No, no, no!" Anthony yelled. "What is wrong with you lot? I need to see John Watson!"

"He is currently in protective custody, so if you don't mind talking to me - "

"I do mind! I need to speak with him! He's in danger!"

"I'm well aware," Lestrade replied. "It's my job to keep him safe."

"Right, well, I've tossed that. See, he came into my shop about a bust someone bought."

"A bust? Did he say why?"

"No, but the people who took me, they were interested in the same bust. They were keen on who else had come asking about it, too. I tried not to say anything, but I was too scared."

Lestrade said, "I understand. Just take your time."

"Right, errr, they told me they had a bust similar to the one I sold and wanted to know where mine came from. I told them it was from Vincent Harold Stanley's estate, but I left out the bit about his two heirs, the Leavitt siblings, wanting to liquidate everything they inherited. And the whole time, they kept referring to my bust as a duplicate, which is wrong, completely wrong. I tried to talk around it, you know? But I wound up telling them about John Watson and his entire visit. They recognized his name. They didn't say as much, but I could tell. And they weren't happy about him being involved."

Lestrade asked, "Did you get a good look at anyone? Maybe a number on how many were involved? Anything you can remember can help."

"Could've been two blokes, but they were putting on voices so I can't be sure. I didn't get a good look because they had masks on, but if I had a guess of it, I'd say they were siblings. Just the way they spoke to each other. Oh, and, they knew antiques, more than able to talk about the inventory at my shop. They also did this thing where they called each other the same name. Thought it was a confusion tactic or something."

"What name was it?" Lestrade asked.

"Aaron," Anthony replied.

"You've been very helpful," Lestrade said. "Don't worry about John Watson, he's safe, and if he were here, he'd be a doctor and tell you to rest up and get well. All right?" 

Anthony smiled weakly and said, "Thank you."

As Lestrade walked through the hospital and out to his car, he remembered something about a case Sherlock closed not long before he died. He called Donovoan.

"Lestrade, you all right?" she answered.

"I need you to look into something for me. I just spoke with the man who was kidnapped, and his abductors wanted to know about some bust, which John had - "

"A bust?" Donovan interrupted. "Listen, I know he's your friend and you're worried, but I don't think John's in any danger over a bust. A hundred other things maybe, but not a bust."

"Ten quid says you're wrong."

"I'll take those odds."

"Good, I need you to check the status for a prisoner, Erin Burnsider."

"Aaron Burnsider escaped," Donovan replied.

"Yeah, I'm talking about the other one, Erin with an E, his sister," Lestrade said. "Twins that trafficked in illegal and stolen goods."

"You think that both Burnsiders escaped custody?" 

"That's what I need you to call about."

"All this over a bust?" Donovan asked.

"It's one thing for Aaron to use Moran's escape to make a break for it, but if the sister's loose, too, then it's likely they're working with Moran, which makes this more than a bust," Lestrade replied. "Oh, and the Burnsiders were both put away by - "

"Sherlock and John," Donovan interrupted. "Right, I'll text you as soon as I've got something."

 

Sherlock Holmes was prone to obsession; at least, that was what normal people called it. To him, the concentration, the absolute focus that people dubbed 'obsession,' was merely the work of a superior mind identifying patterns and ideas that would otherwise be missed.

After nearly two days in the facility, he had established a timeline and discarded cases that were obviously misfiled. He identified several key events and turning points in the career of The Engineer. His progress was obvious, yet part of him knew that he had the answers he wanted already.

Sherlock retained slivers of a conversation that he had with the woman before she stuffed him inside a wall. He remembered her little story about the fireflies and bats or whatever childhood nonsense she had said at the end, but before that, he could only recall a few words. The entire situation was maddening.

It was hour forty-one when something else finally bubbled up.

_"You're not a spy or investigator. Someone with your skills could be anyone. Yet, you have chosen to be no one," he had said._

_She replied, "You think I chose to be nobody? To have no name, no record, no trace?"_

Sherlock closed his eyes and put his hands over his ears, willing himself to recall more, but her voice became a whisper as his mind exploded with data, like his memory palace was leaking.

"Sherlock?" 

He opened his eyes to see Molly Hooper very close to him, a stack of files clutched to her chest. For some reason, his heart rate increased.

"I've been telling you all day, leave me alone!" 

"Sherlock, I just got here."

"What? No, you've been here with me all day, blithering on and interrupting me."

"That was John." 

"She's right. That was me," John said.

"Never mind. You need to see these," she said.

Sherlock nearly roared when Molly covered up some of his timeline with old crime scene photos, but when he saw it, the first picture completely transfixed him. He recognized it.

But that was impossible.

"Give me those, you're doing them in the wrong order!" Sherlock barked as he snatched them from her hands.

"This was how they were in the file," Molly said.

In a matter of minutes, Sherlock assembled Molly's newly acquired photos along the board in the order he experience them: child's bedroom, upstairs hallway, kitchen, living room, dining room, even the bodies.

"This is exactly how I remember it," Sherlock said. 

John asked, "What did I miss?" 

"Where did these come from?" Sherlock demanded adamantly. "These are forensic photographs. Old. The ware says they were developed at least fifteen years ago." 

"Twenty-eight years ago, at least according to the file, dated nineteen eighty-four," Molly replied. 

"File? What file?"

"Project Pileus, Mycroft only got it to me an hour ago," she replied as she handed it off.

Sherlock riffled through the pages like a young child at Christmas.

"Sorry, what's going on?" John asked Molly.

She replied, "Project Dollhouse. It got me thinking, what if The Engineer replicated a crime that had been broken up and classified like Dollhouse had been?"

"So you asked Mycroft for every super-secret project?"

They continued to talk, but their voices became like tiny bugs flying around his head as his mind zeroed in on the task at hand.

His eyes lingered over the photos, which showed the house in its entirety. That meant that the fire was set as part of the classification, to keep the investigation secret, not to hide the crime. The five victims were nearly identical in terms of location and staging, including the scorched body. Clearly it wasn't a forensic countermeasure, or at least not an effective one.

John put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, drawing his attention. He asked, "What do you reckon?"

"That's it," Sherlock whispered.

John replied, "No, I just said it wasn't. I spent all day on this, and there's no pattern to her false names."

"Which is strange, isn't it?" Molly asked. "People usually use tricks for fake names. Like I might say my name was Molly Mason or Molly Workman, you know, something similar to my last name. Definitely keep my first name."

"Shut up, shut up!" Sherlock said, trying to quell the cacophony of distraction. "She couldn't do what you're describing."

John asked sarcastically, "Why's that? You saying she hasn't got her own name or doesn't know it?"

"That's exactly it."

Several minutes of confused silence followed, allowing Sherlock's mind to lock into place. 

The burned body. It had eluded him, confused him, but now it finally made sense. It _was_ a forensic countermeasure but not from the murderer. After the house fire, the previously burned corpse would be mostly ash and bone fragments, an adequate cover for the only surviving member of a slaughtered family.

As the idea dawned on him, his memory came back, cascading around him like a dam had burst in his head.

_"You're not a spy or investigator. Someone with your skills could be anyone. Yet, you have chosen to be no one."_

_The Engineer had replied, "You think I chose to be nobody, to have no name, no record, no trace? Some people do that, I guess. They sacrifice their names to nations, their lives to causes, their legacy to dreams. They give things up to go undercover or to live off the grid. But some of us? Some of us have those things taken from us. Ripped from our hands, salted, and burned. The case is closed with no doubt in anybody's mind that the facts within are the insoluble truth. One of those truths is that I am dead and have been since I was three years old. I didn't choose to be a ghost; someone murdered me."_


	5. Wounds

Molly Hooper had broken Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock said something about The Engineer being murdered when she was three. His next few sentences were spoken too quickly. All she heard was 'outliers,' 'spy craft,' and 'Mycroft'; thereafter, he diminished into incomprehensible muttering with sudden bursts of shouting. She couldn't hear a proper word of any of it. Then he fell silent. 

It was the silence that was getting to her.

As he paced back and forth, she could still see it in his eyes, his wheels ferociously turning.

"She makes a lot of trouble for a dead person," Molly whispered to John.

"Almost as much as Sherlock."

"What are you reading?"

"Take a look," he said, pushing a few pages across the table to her. "When I tried to show this to Sherlock earlier, he yelled at me, but after what he said about - "

"This is The Baker," Molly interrupted. 

"What? No, it's not."

"Isn't that why you thought it was important?"

"No, no, I – where do you see The Baker?"

"Autopsy report on two bodies, total of thirteen bullets," she replied.

"Bullets? For the little girl who called the police to report her own murder?"

"Maybe the papers are mixed up or something. This report is for two people, husband and wife by the looks of it, no child mentioned... what do you reckon?" she asked as she laid out the autopsy diagrams. "Mindy and Gerald Cassidy."

"Hang on, these're Americans, aren't they? The case - called the Ghost Caller Case - or at least the bit I read, took place in America, and it was about a little girl, not two adults. Here it is."

He produced another stack of papers that had come loose from the original folder, but Molly was too ingrained in her own reading. 

"Thing is, I read Interpol's profile on The Baker, and I don't remember anything about him traveling to America. He was only ever active in Europe and Africa," John said. "No mention of The Baker in the file, either. Before his time, do you think?"

"The Baker's first known hit was in 1978," Sherlock said, abruptly entering the conversation. "The second in 1984 but not identified as such until 1998 when two more victims were discovered and thus a pattern identified. Given the time frame between known victims, it's probable that other victims exist but have not yet been attributed to him."

Molly exhaled in relief. It had been nearly four hours since Sherlock had completed a sentence or acknowledged that they were in the room. His sudden return to brisk annoyance proved that she hadn't broken him after all. 

"Man shot six times, woman seven times. The last two shots were post-mortem," Sherlock read aloud. "Why didn't you mention this before?"

"Why? Why? Oh, I dunno Sherlock," John said. "I did show you this case, and you told me I was being idiotic!"

Sherlock ignored him. "Where's the rest of this file? It's missing the name of the child, and yes, a child was involved, it's the only possible explanation!"

"Err, explanation of what, exactly?" Molly asked.

"The last two bullets!" Sherlock exclaimed. He took a moment before he began his latest detective concerto. "The Baker's shots are always perimortem. The Cassidys were hardly his first victims, so why did Mrs. Cassidy receive two shots postmortem? This killer's method requires obsessive planning. If he were hired to murder multiple targets, the order of elimination would be key to success. This translates to a simple formula: the higher threat of the victim, the more bullets allotted to ensure their demise. Both the Cassidys have been trained in some kind of martial art to a fairly high proficiency level, so both had the capacity to defend, fight, or run. Five bullets to Mrs. Cassidy, six to Mr. Cassidy. Why would someone so numerically focused neglect two bullets? He wouldn't. There was a third victim and whoever it must've been considered very low risk. A child, obviously, and almost certainly their child. For some reason, he failed on the third target. With an obsessive personality like his, he couldn't simply leave two shots unfired. He had to spend the two excess bullets, even though it was nearly an hour after his victims had died. Obviously The Baker and clearly a key case. Now, I'll ask again: where is the rest of this file?"

John asked, "How did you...? It doesn't say anything about martial arts – "

Molly interrupted him, "Gerald's sister, Lily, provided a witness statement about it, and there're many common indicators of martial arts training in both autopsies."

"Shannon Cassidy, age ten," Sherlock read out loud.

"The daughter of Mindy and Gerald?" John prompted.

"Don't be ridiculous, of course she's not," Sherlock replied. "Shannon Cassidy was her first false name."

"Hang on, no, you've lost me," John said.

"Amy McDonald," Molly corrected. "According to the Pileus file, her name was Amy McDonald."

"Who are we talking about?" John asked.

"The Engineer, obviously. Pileus records the investigation, but the names of everyone involved have been altered," Sherlock said. "I highly doubt every member of the McDonald family had the same initials and that not one of them had a middle name."

"So, where does that leave us, if our only record points to a false name?" Molly asked. "That just leaves us with Shannon Cassidy, doesn't it?" 

"Ah, at least somebody is paying attention. As for the false name, I assume that my dear brother could have that sorted should he choose to answer his mobile."

After a few minutes of quiet, Sherlock added, "Something went wrong with one of The Baker's revolvers."

"He shot thirteen times," Molly replied. "Seems in order to me."

"But his usual hits have fallen into a rough pattern of six bullets from one revolver, seven from another. Obviously he has to reload one of them mid-kill, but this time he had to reload one gun three times. Eleven bullets fired from an unspecified revolver, possibly an FN Barracuda or Minebea, but only two from a confirmed Smith and Wesson revolver. Most probably an older Model 19, though the crime lab that tested the bullets failed to clarify the model. In any case, none of his later murders ever involved this revolver or any other model from Smith and Wesson, but all his previously known kills did. The only reason this would happen is if something went wrong with the weapon during this assassination. It failed, was damaged, or was lost, which makes this a very unusual case for The Baker."

Sherlock then began moving around the room, gathering materials.

"Sherlock, what're you doing?" John called after him.

"Isn't it obvious?"

Molly and John shared an incredulous look.

"You wishing he'd go back to muttering as much as I am?" John asked her.

Sherlock returned to pile his collection into a large box. 

"Sherlock?" he asked.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Sherlock snapped. He continued in his mocking voice, "It appears as if I'm moving papers into what appears to be squared cardboard."

"That's it, I'm leaving!" John blurted. "You can sod off!"

"John, wait!" Molly said.

"Molly's right, John, the car won't be here for at least another twenty minutes."

"You called a car? To go where?" John asked.

"The flat."

"The flat? You mean mine and Molly's flat?"

"Now you're just being tedious. I mean Baker Street, John."

"Baker Street?" Molly asked. "Is that a good idea? I mean, can you do that? Without people learning you're not dead?"

"He has done," John replied.

"No, we can't!" she said rather loudly. "I spoke with Lestrade after I called Mycroft. He had news, and it's not good."

"We already knew that, didn't we? A madman wants to find Sherlock and thinks the best way to do that through you and me."

"He escaped," she said.

"Why is it that you speak at length about dribble and absolute nonsense like your opinions or daily routine, yet when you are in possession of valuable information, you become terse to the point of obfuscation?" Sherlock asked. "Who escaped, and from where?"

"Moran. He broke out of prison."

"And you, what? Just didn't bother mentioning it?" John asked.

"That's...that is correct."

"Perfectly sensible," Sherlock said.

"Sorry, what?" John asked. "What?"

"Until quite recently Molly believed that the whole of our time would be spent in this facility focused on The Engineer. It was quite reasonable of her to delay the delivery of irrelevant information," he said with an odd expression. Was it satisfaction? Or perhaps pride? "On the other hand, providing me with this information at once would have been far more efficient. Finding The Engineer with a years-old homicide will be monotonous and time consuming. It will be much easier to use more recent crimes: the Decapitated Man, the Wendells, Sebastian Moran. Now that we know The Baker attempted to kill her when she was ten. The Baker is connected to Sebastian Moran; thus we can connect Moran and The Engineer."

"Well, then, back to Baker Street it is," Molly said to fill the billowing, awkward silence.

 

"On the plus side, crime is down," Donovan said. "Perfect time to clear out some paperwork."

"You're telling me that no one – not one informant – has come in with anything?" Lestrade asked. "Largest jailbreak from Woodhill, and we've got nothing?"

"Actually, that assessment isn't quite right," Anderson said from the door. 

"Blimey, Philip! Don't you knock?" Lestrade barked.

"The door was open," Anderson replied. 

"What do you have?" Donovan asked. 

"I just finished going through the reports and results from the Waverly crime scene with the bust," Anderson said. "DNA, which I haven't run, and partial prints, enough for a match."

"Don't keep us waiting," Donovan said.

"Craig Ragland. Extensive criminal record with a current address here in London."

"Excellent work, Anderson!" Lestrade said. "I'll put out a warrant for his arrest."

"Oh, and one more thing," Anderson said. "I had someone track the inventory of the Wilder Shoppe to the bust's most recent owner, Pamela Leavitt. She and her brother handled some distant relative's estate and decided to sell it. Anthony Wilder had no idea that Pamela added about a dozen or so items she'd inherited from someone else."

"Why not just sell them?" Donovan asked. "If she inherited them before, she's already paid the tax."

"Can't be sure," Anderson replied. "But IT forensics dug up a name on the unwanted inheritance: Richard Brook."

"Richard Brook?" Lestrade repeated. "Please tell me you don't mean - "

"Moriarty," Anderson interrupted. "That's exactly who I mean. And it gets worse. The hacker who broke into the Wilder Shoppe, Hacksaw, he did a job covering it all up, trying to make it look like Brook's items were part of the Stanley estate. Leavitt's lawyer confirmed it, but he insists his clients weren't responsible."

"So the Burnsiders abducted Anthony to question him about a bust he sold to John Watson, which apparently belonged to Pamela Leavitt after Richard Brook, aka James Moriarty, died," Lestrade summarized. "And all of this coincides with the largest escape from Woodhill Prison."

"Technically, John didn't purchase the bust," Anderson corrected. 

Donovan asked, "Leavitt... Where do I know that name from?"

"You probably don't. The brother's some bigwig out in Derbyshire," Anderson replied.

"Derbyshire?" Lestrade repeated. "Didn't we speak with his assistant or something like that over the not-dead murdered man at Saint Bart's?" 

"The Decapitated Man," Anderson corrected. "John titled it, even if he didn't put it on his blog."

"So this bust is connected to James Moriarty and at least one kidnapping and one murder," Lestrade said. 

"Add Sebastian Moran to that list," Donovan said with a frown on her face. "We know he's involved in the decapitation case somehow."

"So we find Craig Ragland, maybe we find Sebastian Moran?" Lestrade asked. "Better bring him in now. Oh, and put a call into protective custody. I need to arrange a meeting with Indigo Kendall Berwyn."

 

Saint Bart's seemed unnecessarily gloomy. Not that John ever expected the morgue to be a cheery place, but it usually wasn't so hostile. Granted, he was sitting in a room full of inconvenienced staff members, including the distraught Barry Thomas and Molly's traumatized assistant, Samuel Rountree. 

Molly returned with a look on her face that was both sad and annoyed. John felt a twinge of guilt. He had been so frustrated with Sherlock these past few days that he refused to wear the camera and ear bud required to allow the consulting detective access to "real time data" as he called it. That left Molly to act as his surrogate. 

She walked over to him and leaned in for a whisper. "He told me to tell you that you need to say you're off to the toilet and then wait outside the door. The first one out there leaving in a hurry should be stopped."

"You serious?" John asked.

Molly nodded. She turned to the room to get their attention. "I'm sorry to call you all in like this, but this is about Cypress Hare, or as a lot of you call him, the Decapitated Man."

He didn't bother excusing himself, and no one seemed to mind. As he shut the door, he heard Molly say, "What I need is... well, errr... to see your hands."

Someone followed him. He turned around to see Officer Stephen Davidson, part of the security detail Lestrade assigned.

"You okay?" Davidson asked.

"Yeah, fine, you don't need to babysit me."

Davidson backed away but didn't return to the room. John took a deep breath and willed his bad mood to pass. 

Footsteps caught his attention. A man passed the room warily, not taking much notice of John or Davidson. There was something familiar to his face.

"You here for the meeting?" John asked.

"Just on my break," the man replied. 

His voice and pace remained the same, which gave John the impression that he was telling the truth, but something was off. Did he answer the question too quickly? No. He had answered the question, but he hadn't spoken to anyone in particular. No eye contact, no thinking before speaking, just a knee-jerk denial.

"Sorry, do I know you?" John asked.

The man suddenly broke into a run. Instinctively, John started after him, and Davidson followed.

"Stop him!" John shouted to the guards as they passed through the halls. "That man there! Stop him!"

But confusion slowed everything down. The man was well-acquainted with Bart's, as he traversed the maze-like hallways with no trouble. John was already running out of breath when the man darted up the stairs to the medical floors.

"You can't be serious!" he huffed.

"Stop! Watson!" Davidson called.

"Call for backup! Just stop that man!" he replied before racing up the stairs himself.

He kept telling himself, 'One more flight, just one more flight!' to keep his energy up. He could still see the man's coat rippling behind him, just one flight ahead. The stitch in his side was growing, and he wasn't sure how many more stairs he could take – 

CRASH! Shriek!

Just as John reached the top of the stairs, a door swung open abruptly, and he couldn't avoid it. He crashed and bounced toward the railing before hitting the ground. The two people who had thrown the door open mid-kiss screamed as they yanked the door shut.

John tried to stand, but a profound vertigo prevented him. 

"Doctor Watson," Davidson said, breathless from the run. "Are you all right?"

"Go after him," John said. "Go on, go!"

But Davidson wouldn't budge.

 

John wasn't sure how long it all took. Davidson wouldn't take him to the emergency room because it was too public and too chaotic. He refused to get on a gurney, so an orderly brought him to the nearest doctor's lounge, where an oncologist did a preliminary exam to assess trauma.

"I told you, I'm fine. Just banged up is all," he repeated over and over again, until Davidson finally escorted him back to Molly's office.

"There you are," she said. "What happened?"

"I chased someone off – pretty sure he was on the list but didn't come in," John said. "He ran when I tried to talk to him, so I followed."

"He crashed into a door," Davidson added. "Wouldn't let anyone check him properly for concussions and the like."

"I'm a doctor. Molly's a doctor. Mrs. Hudson has those herbal soothers. I'm fine, really," John replied.

Davidson left the office, shaking his head.

"They've arrested Doctor Greenberg," she replied. "They got him trying to slip out one of the staff doors in the hospital."

"Was he the one I chased?"

"Must be, he was the only one who checked in but didn't come into the meeting." 

"He checked in? Why would he do that if he didn't mean to go to the meeting?"

Molly smiled. "Honestly, he must've thought it was his lucky day. Greenberg was suspended along with the others pending the investigation. No privileges at all. The only way he was getting into Saint Bart's morgue was in his own body bag."

"He came in for access?" John asked. "To what?"

"While you were out, Davidson checked surveillance. He saw Greenberg take something from a closet into the medical waste area and throw it into the incinerator."

"Did they get it out?" John asked.

"They tried," she replied. 

"That doesn't make any sense. If he managed to succeed in burning evidence, why'd he run when I tried to speak with him?"

"Dunno. I dunno what he burned or why, but now we've got pictures of his hands. Sherlock's certain he's the killer."

"But if he burned the evidence, what can we do?" John asked. "Whatever Sherlock sees in his hands won't likely prove anything to a jury."

"As he insists," Molly began, "putting him away wasn't the goal."

"It wasn't?" John asked. "What's the point of finding criminals then?"

Officer Lacey Honeycutt, the other member of their security team, entered the room. 

"I could ask you the same thing," Honeycutt said. "Chasing after murderers when you're in protective custody. Something must be wrong in your head."

"Did they find anything on Doctor Greenberg?" Molly asked.

Honeycutt replied, "Not yet, but they took him in for questioning since he ditched the meeting. I asked Saint Bart's for his emergency contact, figuring I could do the guy a favor with a phone call."

"That's kind of you," Molly said.

"It would've done had the contact been alive," Honeycutt replied.

"His contact died?" John asked.

"Been dead four years now, a guy named Colonel Lysander Stark," Honeycutt replied. "His uncle or cousin or something like that."

"Four years?" Molly repeated. "Doctor Greenberg just started a few months ago. Why would he fill out his paperwork with a contact that's already dead?"

"Dunno, maybe he's just sentimental," Honeycutt said. "As for you two, the constable wants your statements before we bring you home."

The sudden thrill John had deflated. They were going to be here for a while.

 

Mycroft Holmes had always enjoyed his brother's company. Part of the reason was his intellect; there were few people who possessed his level of ability and even fewer who had the courage to use it. Without Sherlock, Mycroft would have become a complete recluse, handling his affairs via mobile or electronic mail to avoid the dull drivel of the common man. Somehow, his younger brother found nuggets of curiosity in people and made everything so... interesting.

But ever since his faux-death, Sherlock had been nothing but an entrenched boar, more stubborn and obsessive than ever. Nevertheless, Mycroft went to 221 B under the guise of tea with Mrs. Hudson, even though he had a strong suspicion that this particular brotherly chat would not go well.

"Oh, Mycroft, good to see you," Mrs. Hudson said as she led him into the kitchen. "He's set up in the basement. All the windows boarded up, so you might need a torch."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

The torch turned out to be spot on. Sherlock had taken the liberty of pointing every light source at elaborate corkboards that filled the room. Apparently his younger brother had no need to see anything else.

"My, my, this is quite the... establishment," Mycroft commented.

CRACK! 

It had happened so swiftly that Mycroft heard it before he felt it: a hard left hook across his jaw that knocked him into the wall.

"Ah, as expected," he said mildly as he returned to his feet. "I assumed you'd be upset."

"Upset?" Sherlock repeated. "For withholding vital information from me? For sending me off to review data in a warehouse so you could have time between lies? Do be specific here. What do you believe I'm 'upset' about, brother?"

"Don't tell me you're surprised."

"Hardly. Why wouldn't you protect a woman who nearly killed me on more than one occasion?"

"Don't be so dramatic. Besides, I'm not protecting her, I'm protecting you," Mycroft replied. "Your obsession isn't just unhealthy in the proverbial sense. There is a reason this woman has remained in the shadows for so long, and here comes Sherlock Holmes, without any consideration for the complexities around him, ready to shine a spotlight on The Engineer."

"Need I remind you that she chose me," Sherlock said. "She targeted me in no small part because of you. Meanwhile, you dole out half-truths and redacted files and send me around in circles, knowing that I can't use the Science of Deduction in this case! And for what? What is she, Mycroft? A lover? An asset? What?"

"Oh, please, a lover," Mycroft said with ample distain in his voice.

"Projects like Dollhouse and Pileus can only be set in motion by someone in your position, and your love of bureaucracy dictates that only certain scenarios qualify. Would you like me to deduct the likelihoods here? Because frankly I've had enough tedium for your sake."

"You do realize that Pileus was executed when I was twenty, before my career began, before I had an ear in such matters."

"Irrelevant."

"I know Pileus is related to a British asset, code name Driftwood. Although after the events of Pileus he disappeared for some time until he resurfaced under the mantel of The Architect."

"I need the names – the real names – for everyone in the Pileus files, including this Driftwood spy. And, of course, the murderer responsible, an odd fact to omit from an investigation."

"Not when the case is unsolved."

That captured Sherlock's attention.

Mycroft continued, "The killer was named as the Right Arm of the Ringleader of a criminal enterprise. The investigation failed to identify either party. That's why every name has a substitution. The case is still open."

"Government efficiency all over. Investigators fail to identify the culprits. Decades pass, and by then, no one can take on the investigation because everything documented is fabricated!"

"Yes, yes, that's rather the point, isn't it? Because the redactions are to prevent actions against assets and associations, not to solve cases. You must be superbly sleep-deprived, Sherlock."

"So you're hiding behind that ruse? I never thought you'd sink so low," Sherlock said.

"Now, now, it's no time to resort to name-calling. I have, how shall we say, set things in motion, but these things take time. And no amount of _ad hominem_ arguments on your part will expedite that."

Sherlock abruptly changed the subject. "Doctor Brentin Greenberg," he said. 

"One of Doctor Hooper's coworkers," Mycroft added.

"His listed emergency contact was Colonel Lysander Stark, likely because the man was his benefactor. Interesting man, Stark, with tangential links to Mortiarty and Moran. With all the data at that warehouse, Stark's name is oddly absent, save for his abduction, torture, and murder."

"His kidnapping shared similarities with some of The Engineer's known activities," Mycroft said. "But we never had reason to suspect she and Stark crossed paths, which makes her an unlikely candidate for his kidnapper."

"I am absolutely certain that they crossed paths, which means his abduction and six-month captivity were likely her doing."

"During his abduction, we have reason to believe she was in France, and, forgive me for pointing out the obvious, but the woman in question is prone to practical, even utilitarian, violence. Stark's captivity, as you've called it, included rather merciless torture for months on end."

"Did you suspect him in the Pileus murders? Of being the Right Arm that you mentioned?" Sherlock asked. "I've heard that slaughtering the entirety of a person's family can lead that person to excess violence, apparently it's one of those nasty byproducts of sentiment."

"We never had any reason to suspect Stark in the Pileus murder."

"Except now we know that Doctor Brentin Greenberg murdered the Decapitated Man," Sherlock said. "A man with no known criminal activity, who has never been suspected of any crime, kills a stranger in cold blood. His only criminal connection is Stark, and years after his death, Greenberg turns out to be in the employ of Sebastian Moran."

"Very astute."

"Mycroft!" Sherlock said loudly. "You must've considered the possibility that Stark was a part of a criminal organization and his possible role in Pileus." 

"Yes to the former, and as for the latter, well, I didn't consider it until Doctor Hooper inquired about other projects similar to Dollhouse. His death makes confirmation difficult to say the least."

"Who did he work for?" Sherlock demanded.

"I've no idea. And, yes, that is the truth."

"I don't believe you."

"Then, by all means, believe your own deductions. Consider The Engineer's scenario."

Sherlock took a moment. "She seeks out the individual responsible for the death of her family."

Mycroft continued, "And let's assume, for simplicity's sake, that Stark was the hand that pulled the trigger."

"Somehow she managed to do what the whole of British intelligence could not," Sherlock said. "Typical. Then she kept and tortured the man so he'd give up his employer. Once he did, she disposed of him."

"Stark was murdered four years ago," Mycroft pointed out. "Seems an awfully long time for her to wait for revenge."

Silence fell as Sherlock considered the facts. If Stark failed to reveal who ordered her family murdered, then why wouldn't she continue to keep him? Torture may fail, but many other methods of extracting information existed. On the other hand, had she gotten a name or lead on the ringleader, why bother recruiting Sherlock to begin with?

He had been too aggravated with his brother to realize that Doctor Brentin Greenberg and Colonel Lysander Stark were both dead ends. That irritated Sherlock to no end.

"This woman has friends. No, no, she has connections," Sherlock said. "Not to mention your spy. What I need now is behavioral data, and for that I need associates, minions, devotees, anyone who knows her beyond a single alias. And don't tell me you haven't bothered with a list!"

"I assure you, there is one, but it is rather short, I'm afraid."

 

Lestrade waved Donovan in from the bullpen while he finished with the CO19 unit request. He hung up just before she got into his office. 

"Sorry, we haven't gotten Ragland yet," she said.

"We just got a tip. Moran was sighted at an abandoned warehouse in London six minutes ago."

"How's this different from the hundred other places Moran was spotted at?"

"Because the tip came in a little after reports of shots fired in the same area. I've already called an Armed Response Unit in," he replied. "What about you? You have your coat?"

Donovan smiled, "Let's go then, boss."

They drove to the warehouse and waited for the CO19 unit to sweep the area. It felt like a short eternity.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade?" an officer said. "Constable Evans. We're sweeping again just in case, but so far, no people and no bodies, but you should get forensics down here."

Evans then returned to his commanding officer. 

"You reckon we should take a peek? For the sake of due diligence?" Donovan suggested. 

Lestrade nodded. With the wave of a hand, armed coppers flanked them and followed them into the warehouse. 

"Blimey," Lestrade said.

"He said no bodies, didn't he?" Donovan asked. 

Her question wasn't out of place. The smell of gunpowder and blood, of ash and iron, permeated the air. Blood spattered the walls and pooled on the ground. There were shoe impressions and drag marks. Whatever happened here was brutal and unexpected, and whoever did it took the bodies with them.


	6. In Triplicate

"Where the hell is Anderson?" Lestrade demanded.

Donovan replied, "He'll be here when he's here. And if you don't mind, I've some information. They've identified some of the bloody fingerprints found on the scene: Sebastian Moran, Craig Ragland, and Duncan Ross. Other prints were lifted from around the warehouse could've been here for weeks or a few hours, hard to tell."

Finally, Anderson approached them. 

"Tell me you have something," Lestrade said.

Anderson replied, "Nothing official, but Donovan convinced me that a preliminary walkthrough would be helpful. Follow me."

Donovan and Lestrade donned plastic booties, shower caps, and gloves before Anderson led them inside the warehouse to a blood-covered wall.

"See that window there?" he said. "If you take a peek outside, there's a bit of a lip that someone used as a perch. Probably in dark clothing. At night, nobody would've caught sight of him unless they pointed a torch right at him. Found scuffmarks out there but no prints. Must've been wearing gloves."

"So we have a witness but no way to find him?" Donovan asked.

"I don't think he's a witness. See the string?" Anderson asked, indicating a suspended string that ran from the window to a beam rafter, then down to the floor. "This is the trajectory of some kind of projectile, possibly from a zip-gun, silenced weapon, or hell, even a slingshot. The assailant ricocheted steel ball bearings off that beam and into two separate victims."

Donovan asked, "What's with the bouncing?"

Anderson replied, "Again, my best guess, but if your mate was hit suddenly, you'd look in the direction it came from, so the ricochet concealed his location, at least initially. Everything we've got so far says these were the first shots fired. After that, complete chaos." 

He motioned for them to follow. As they walked, he narrated. "We've got indications of stabbings and gunshot wounds here, there, everywhere. All I can tell you right now is that it involved a lot of people, and most of them were injured. And these footprints we're following? They lead us outside."

Several techs had to step back as Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson exited the back door of the warehouse. 

"The victim was around here when he was shot. Blood spatter suggests that the assailant fired from the warehouse roof. Sorry, we haven't set up a line for that yet."

"Could this be the zip-gun/slingshot assailant?" Lestrade asked.

"Difficult to say, but no matter who or what hit the victim, these bloody shoeprints here and these drag marks along here? They lead to a big, car-sized nothing. The depth of the shoe impressions and drag marks suggests the victim was a large, heavy man. The shoeprints tell us it took two men to get him just this short distance. I'd say that Sebastian moan would be a likely candidate, but it'll be a day at least before we have DNA confirmation."

An officer approached and interrupted, "Excuse me, Detective Inspector Lestrade? I'm Flannelly, sir. We've got something for you on surveillance." 

"Thank you Anderson," Lestrade said before he and Donovan followed the officer.

Flannelly led them to a public phone booth, talking as they went. "We're working on getting the surveillance footage transferred to the Yard, but I already caught a look at it. A person comes into this booth right around the time of the shooting, dials nine nine nine, leaves the phone off the hook, then puts this up there."

Lestrade and Donovan awkwardly squeezed together to look at whatever Flannelly was pointing to. There was a message written out along the wall:

> DR? DR? DR. WHO?

Donovan said, "Whoever it was probably came from a nearby convention."

"Not a convention I'd attend," Flannelly said quietly. "One of the forensics guys took a swab of it, told me it's written in blood."

Lestrade nodded. "Listen, our first order of business is to figure out who this guy is. Second order is keeping his image to ourselves. We wanna keep him and his message under our has for now."

"His message?" Donovan asked.

"We need every PC and Bobby out there to tap every kind of off-the-grid medical service."

"We've already got people out doing that," she said.

"Not just the black market or back alley surgeons. Moran has money, so any doctors with a dodgy history or a private facility could be involved. Doctors that cater to anyone who demands absolute privacy, politicians and media stars and whatnot, would have the means as well. This guy is trying to warn us."

"You think this guy's trying to help us? Why not just tell the responder that answered his nine nine nine call?"

"Dunno. Maybe he was injured, couldn't speak? Or maybe he was afraid someone would hear him or recognize his voice from the recording? We'll ask him when we find him, but right now, it's important no one else knows about him. I don't want Moran getting to him first."

 

John and Molly had made an unorthodox pit stop, and their security detail didn't like it.

"Follow my instructions precisely," Sherlock said through the ear buds. "You will have less than seven minutes. No mindless prattle. The Homeless Network will soon provide those officers with a diversion. Don't squander it."

Sure enough, a verbal altercation escalated to a knuckle brawl just moments later. The ruckus attracted quite a lot of attention, and a crowd moved in, pushing and shoving. Honeycutt called the fight in while Davidson attempted to steer Molly and John back to the car, but the swarm of people moved like a tidal wave. 

Molly and John split and walked quickly so as not to attract attention. It took them two minutes to reach the British Library, leaving their protective detail in the throng of spectators.

"Proceed immediately to the Rare Books and Music section," Sherlock instructed. "One of you will have to distract the attendant. Molly is probably better suited."

"Oi, what does that mean?" John asked.

The attendant was a man in his thirties with olive skin. He smiled at Molly, but his light green eyes lit up when John approached.

"Ah, sorry Molly. It appears John's flirtations will be better received," Sherlock said

John couldn't wait until Sherlock was legally alive again; then he'd be physically present during investigations and therefore within punching distance. 

"I'm Doctor John Watson," John said warmly.

"A doctor? Is that a PhD or MD?"

"MD."

"Well, I'm Edward Riley-Tailor, very pleased to meet you."

For the next three minutes, John actively ignored Sherlock's stream of instructions to Molly and continued to chat up the young Edward Riley-Tailor. They spoke about education mostly, and just as they began discussing medical clinics, Molly tapped John on the shoulder. 

"Sorry, I've got to go, nice to meet you," he said before following the pathologist.

"Ah, they've found us," Molly warned.

Davidson and Honeycutt were staring daggers at them from the main entrance. 

"Sorry, got lost in the crowd, figured this was a good a place as any," John said.

"And my name's Matilda," Davidson said. "Do us a favor, don't mention this to Lestrade, and we'll do the same."

Honeycutt and Davidson remained angry until they dropped them outside of 221 B.

"I feel badly," Molly said r. 

"Me too," he replied. "You have any reason why Sherlock wanted to nick this whatever it is to begin with?"

"Not one."

Sherlock waited for them by the stairs.

"What took you so long?" he demanded. "Never mind. My dear brother finally provided relevant information. We've leads to pursue."

"But what about what we just pilfered from the British Library?" Molly asked as she held up her oversized handbag.

"Put that somewhere upstairs. We've not a moment to lose," Sherlock replied.

"No, Sherlock," she said. "We haven't been home for days, and now that we are, we've been running around London lying to everyone we meet! I've had it, Sherlock! So I'm staying in with this stupid statue that you asked me to nick!"

Before anyone could reply, Molly marched up the stairs and slammed her bedroom door shut.

"I guess it's just you and me, then," John said. "Bit awkward, isn't it? What with the police escorting me everywhere and you being dead."

"Oh, don't be so tedious, I've already made arrangements. We'll be leaving through the basement."

"So what are we doing now? Looking for The Engineer."

"Don't be ridiculous. We're going after The Medic and Hacksaw."

"Do we have their proper names?" John asked.

"Proper names? That'd be entirely too easy. Where would be the fun in that?"

 

 **Scotland Yard**. Lestrade felt like he was going through a revolving door of interrogations. The Yard drummed up seven new medical facilities that worked in absolute silence, so long as the patient had enough money. Four of the doctors had top-of-the-line accommodations in their enterprise, and with all the equipment and staff required, it would take years to sort everything legally.

"Cheers to your specialized medical raids, it kicked up a lot of arrests," Donovan said. "Officers just brought in Vincent Spaulding and Jackson Clay, but Clay was pretty bad off so he's at the hospital. Spaulding had minor knife wounds, but he was cleared and is waiting for you in interview one."

"We brought in Grimesby Brown last night, so that leaves Sebastian Moran, Aaron Burnsider, and Erin Burnsider," Lestrade said. "Would you take another run at Brown?"

"You got it, boss."

Lestrade made his way to interview one to speak with Spaulding.

"Ah, nice to see you again Vincent," Lestrade said as he sat down at the interrogation table. "Or do you prefer Mr. Spaulding?"

"Just Spaulding," Vincent replied. 

"Seems like we picked you up at a back alley facility. Any comment? No? Well, then, how about a statement on what happened at the warehouse? Didn't think so. Then let me ask you something - and this is really important, mind – do you know who this is?"

He produced a snapshot of the person in the phone booth. Even with the face obscured, Spaulding obviously recognized the individual, just like Brown.

"So you do know him. We figured this person was at the warehouse and might be a bit more talkative than you lot."

"I doubt it," Vincent replied. "In fact, I doubt that one will be a problem for anyone else. She – yeah ya can't tell from this but this is a woman - she got off yesterday at the warehouse just fine, but today was another story."

"Is that why Jackson Clay had two bullet wounds but didn't get treated until today?" Lestrade asked. "Your lot had another incident like the warehouse?"

"I'm not saying anything, except she got what she deserved, so go on and look for her. If she's not in the morgue, she will be soon. I'm done talking."

Lestrade left, doing his best not to react to the possibility that the tipster was dead. He'd have to make rounds on the hospitals, see if he could find her before Moran's other contacts got to her.

 

John Watson was dead on his feet. He and Sherlock had been out all night and into the next day, checking out various doctors at health clinics around London. Scotland Yard slowed their search considerably, as the police were scouting perimeters and interviewing staff members.

"You sure we can't look for this Hacksaw fellow?" John asked. "I hear most hackers are indoor-types. Much less moving around."

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock replied. "The Homeless Network will be much better suited to identifying Hacksaw. The Medic is much easier to find, and whoever she is, we'll find her – or something that points to her - at one of these clinics."

"You reckon that from her work with The Engineer?"

"They must be able to meet somewhere, a real medical facility with the proper staff and tools, and these clinics cater to the right groups."

"Mycroft didn't have a real name? Or a guess?" John asked. "Seriously, this is the thirtieth place we've been."

"Happily, there are hundreds of locations."

They stepped inside yet another clinic. John was surprised when he saw only a few patients waiting. Then he glanced at his watch and saw it was half past ten in the morning. 

"Don't you look lovely," Sherlock said to a passing doctor. "I'm Sean Holtz. Who might you be?"

The doctor flashed him a smile as she extended her hand. "Doctor Evelyn Lanser," she replied. "Usually we do introductions in the exam room."

"My apologies for not waiting, but you are just stunning."

"Really? It's just... I'm coming off my shift, and I've been here all night and was stuck in my office for hours with paper work waiting on my cell phone."

Sherlock interrupted with genuine awe. "Really? You'd never guess by the sight of you."

John couldn't believe his ears. Was Sherlock Holmes _flirting_ with the doctor? Or had he fallen asleep and started on a truly bizarre dream?

After a few more sickly-sweet exchanges, the consulting detective shoved John out the side door. 

"So you liked her?" John asked, intrigued.

"What? I know it's hard, but do at least try not to be so gullible."

They ended up a few blocks away under a purple-and-red awning outside a dodgy salon, where they waited for about ten minutes before an older woman in scruffy clothing bumped into Sherlock.

"Sorry about that, Swift," she said. 

"Brambling," Sherlock replied quietly.

She left as noiselessly as she appeared, and Sherlock glanced at a napkin he didn't have a few moments before.

"We have a location," Sherlock said before he raced off. "Hurry up, we need to get there as soon as possible!"

When John caught up, Sherlock continued, "Doctor Evelyn Lanser has a fluttering accent and uses Americanism, such as 'cell phone.' Brambling tailed her to a promising location, and our immediate and unexpected arrival is critical."

"We're doing this because Doctor Lanser has an accent? That can't be right."

"The accent was just one factor. She said she was coming off a shift, but it was half past ten, who goes off a shift then? No one. Even with two hours of paperwork, the night shift gets off at seven. Why would anyone lie about that? Either she's a sociopath – and it takes one to know one, and I can assure you she's not – or she's hiding something, almost certainly something to do with her working hours. I imagine she's still clocked in, and if anyone asked, more than one staff member would insist she was at the clinic attending to patients as we speak. In addition, she has a similar facial structure to this woman," Sherlock said as he produced a clipping from a newspaper from his coat pocket.

The clipping was old, but the picture did show someone who resembled Lanser standing in front of the American flag at a podium. The caption, headline, and article had all been cropped in favor of the image, but there was enough text for John to make out the year, 1991, and that the article was about a memorial service. 

"Where did you get this?" he asked. "Seriously, did I fall asleep and miss all the investigating?"

"Sometimes I ask myself the same thing."

Before John could respond, Sherlock stopped abruptly in front of a residential building. 

"Brambling left us a mode of egress," Sherlock said, indicating an open basement window.

"You've got to be kidding. I couldn't fit through that."

But the consulting detective had already started to wiggle inside. John reluctantly followed, after several unpleasant minutes squeezing through the frame, he dropped into the basement hallway.

"Shoot the lock," Sherlock demanded.

"What? No."

"Why not?"

"For one, I don't have my gun. Can't you just pick it?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he opened the lock with minimal effort. He pushed the door opened, and Lanser jumped back with a start, dropping an instrument tray.

"Ah, good to see you again, Doctor Lanser," Sherlock said. "We might be breaking and entering, but you seem to be setting up an illegal medical facility."

"It's not what you think," she replied.

"Isn't it?" John asked. 

"Get inside and shut the door."

Sherlock and John obliged. 

"Apparently, I need a better locksmith. Why are you here?"

"Why do you have this place when you've got a stocked clinic a few blocks away?" John asked.

"My flat is upstairs, on the third floor. Treating people in your basement is quite convenient."

"You should really practice that lie in the mirror more," John said. 

She said, "It's for illegal immigrants. People who've lost their status or got into the country illegally. They won't go to a hospital or a clinic, no matter how many times you say they're not in danger."

"Another lie," Sherlock commented.

"What're you? Reporters? Fine. This is scandal central. Whenever there's someone who needs medical aid but doesn't want a file with their name on it, they come here. Politicians with STDs from their affairs, that kind of thing. That what you're after?"

"Not really," John replied. "We're only interested in one woman. She'd definitely want to keep her name off medical records."

"And who is that?" Lanser asked. 

"She has many names: Indigo Kendall Berwyn, Shannon Cassidy, Elena Wilhelm-Glass," Sherlock replied. "Though for the sake of simplicity, we call her The Engineer."

"I don't know what you two are on about, but I can't help you."

"You'd rather us report your facility to the police?" Sherlock asked. "They'll investigate. You may well lose your license, possibly go to jail."

"She helped you, didn't she?" John asked. "The Engineer. She helped us, to, after a fashion. And then she sort of... put us on a cold case. We've gotten far enough that we need to find her again."

"And how can I believe that?" she demanded.

"What would it take?" John asked. "You keep up with the news? Sherlock Holmes. First a consulting detective, then a fraud, then his name cleared. She did that last bit, clearing his name. Oh, and if anyone asked, he's dead."

"Doesn't that make you his blogger?" she asked John.

"John Watson, and no, I'm not looking to blog about her. We're just looking for a way to contact her."

"She needed my help, but if she caught sight of you - which I'm sure she did - she wouldn't come here. I can't contact her. She contacts me. You understand?"

Sherlock replied, "You seem willing to risk much to protect her. Foolish and likely the result of her aid in the past."

"It is, but I've no reason to explain myself to you," she replied. Lanser hesitated for a moment, sizing up her two uninvited guests. "If she has helped you, either of you, then you should know, she has a standing mutually assured destruction policy. Anything happens to her and evidence starts appearing. Secrets are revealed. Enemies are contacted. That kind of thing."

"That'd explain how she managed to stay hidden and alive while looking into people like Moran and Moriarty," John said. "Did she mention why she needed your help?"

"No, but she'll contact me if she needs medical treatment. Stitches, infections, that kind of thing."

"If your right that your patient won't be arriving, that gives us time to chat," Sherlock said brightly.

 

 **Scotland Yard**. Lestrade thought his day might never end. It had been a good one, no doubt, what with three fugitives returned to custody, but it had taken its toll. He had scoured hospitals and tapped every snitch, but no one had seen the tipster. No one would give up her name. Lestrade feared that Spaulding was right; she was dead and eventually would turn up in a morgue.

"We got Craig Ragland pulled in on that weird bust case. Told the officers that brought him in that he broken in and smashed it because it was too ugly to leave as-is," Donovan said from the door.

"Seriously?"

"We're still looking for Duncan Ross and Moran, but our last lead on either of them was the warehouse. I'm headed home."

"Good night, Sally."

 

Sherlock led John back into 221 via the basement flat. After hours of provoking Lanser, she failed to provide them with anything more than scraps of information. They were able to confirm that The Engineer created relationships by debt or blackmail, though she dubbed it 'mutually assured destruction' because she didn't keep secrets and evidence to levy money, only security. 

The scheme was rather clever in its own right, as any enemy she had information against was given incentive to keep her from harm from all her other enemies. That meant that she had the means to contain more volatile arrangements without straining her own resources.

If Sherlock had to choose, he'd rather fake his own death than be in her situation, but should choice not be an option, the eternal gridlock of enemies-turned-allies would be marginally acceptable, at least until Sherlock was able to destroy them all.

John had asked - multiple times - if The Engineer was related to the Holmes family. Of course that would be his conclusion, but as the consulting detective pointed out,   
utilitarian relationships were not a genetic trait, just a sign of intelligence.

"Oh, you're both all right!" Mrs. Hudson sobbed, interrupting his train of thought. "When Molly asked for that errand, I just assumed... oh, never mind!"

"You've been over-indulging in herbal soothers," Sherlock replied. "You should go to bed."

"Good night, Mrs. Hudson," John said politely.

They trudged up to the flat. Halfway up the stairs, they saw it: a blood trail, leading to Molly's room. 

John bolted, and Sherlock wasn't far behind him. They found Molly on the floor, unconscious. As John checked her vitals, Sherlock waited.

Who would dare hurt his pathologist?

"She's alive. No signs of head trauma," he said. "She might've been sedated, but she seems fine. Sherlock?"

"We have a message," he said, indicating her computer. "Shall we?"

He pressed play.

The silhouette of a young woman appeared on the screen. Her face was barely visible, but John recognized her features. Elena Wilhelm-Glass, Indigo Kendall Berwyn, The Engineer.

"Sorry about the mess, but since you decided to tie up my doctor this morning, I thought you wouldn't mind if I borrowed yours. She's quite lovely, but you already know that, don't you? While I'm at it, I should also apologize for deleting the security footage from 221 B for the past twelve hours. I'm not terribly photogenic. 

"I bet you're looking for that knickknack you stole, that bust of Elizabeth the First, or more importantly, its contents. I meant to take it from the library myself, but since you acquired it before me, I thought I'd take care of two birds. I'm going to offer you a trade. A fair one. You get me the info about that case I put you onto – and I mean everything about it, real names, real dates – and I'll give you the bust contents, all of them.

"If you're not sure if that's a good trade, I'll describe the USB sticks that were hidden inside those statues. There are four, and you need all four to decrypt them. They are property of four interesting individuals: Kate W. Shine, Gulf Towell, Valori Tanalit, and Dagger Bane. 

"Don't worry about Doctor Hooper, she'll be fine. I gave her a sedative, nothing dangerous. Think about my offer, then come find me. We'll have a nice chat soon, I'm sure."

The message ended, and Sherlock replayed it, pausing at the four names. He let himself sink into his mind palace. The names were too odd to be real, which meant they must be some kind of code, so he imagined the letters of each name floating, moving, rearranging. 

 

Anagrams. The names were all anagrams. He let each name form new words and patterns.

> VALORI TANALIT became VALIANT TAILOR.
> 
> KATE W. SHRINE transformed into WHITE SNAKE.
> 
> GULF TOWELL shifted into WOLF GULLET.
> 
> DAGGER BANES respelled into GINGERBREAD.

"Names and themes from Grimm's Fairy Tales," Sherlock muttered. "Moriarty." 


	7. Amalgamation

**Scotland Yard**. Duncan Ross adjusted his suit and hair, apparently unconcerned about the fact that he was in an interrogation room.

"I'm DI Lestrade."

"Duncan Ross."

"We asked you in about this," he said as he sat down and spread crime scene photos from the warehouse across the table. "Can't be sure how many bodies this involved, since they were all gone by the time we got there. The owner of this warehouse - "

Duncan interrupted, "It's mine."

"Sorry, did you just admit this warehouse was yours? I had a whole speech ready about the shell corporations and subsidiaries that eventually lead back to you. I even brought diagrams."

"That sounds like a horrid waste of time. Let's skip ahead, shall we? Tell me, DI Lestrade, what do you know about what happened at my warehouse?"

"You do realize that you're under investigation?" Lestrade asked.

"Certainly, but I'm sure you have bigger fish." 

"That depends. What can you tell me about this?" Lestrade asked as he produced a photo of the Elizabeth I bust.

Duncan didn't hide his surprise. He replied, "Gotta admit, I wasn't expecting the coppers to cotton on to any of that. Sharp, DI Lestrade, very sharp. Let's you and me make a deal, then. I give up everything I know, spill my guts on the warehouse and the bust, if you let me and my man Craig Ragland slide."

"That all depends on what you can tell me."

"What if I promised you something else, something big?" Duncan asked. "For example, the real name of The Baker, or at least the one he puts his assets under."

Lestrade took a moment to consider, although there was no doubt in his mind that it was more than fair. He replied, "All right, get on with it then, start with the bust."

"It's not too old, but there's this legend around it. People say diamonds and precious gems are hidden inside in an undetectable compartment. Took me months to track one down, and then some other bloke bought it up before I got to it. So I asked Ragland to collect its contents."

"Which was what, diamonds?" Lestrade asked.

Duncan let out a mirthless laugh. "It was a bloody USB drive, heavily encrypted. I chucked it up to a loss until I caught wind that Moran wanted the busts. I figured maybe my efforts could still get a payday, and Moran said he'd pay so long as I didn't mention the USB to anyone else. So I set up a meet at my warehouse, and then Moran double-crossed me. Had one of his boys take down my security, and some bitch stole the USB."

"Was she working for Moran?"

"She shot him and then swooped in and stole the USB from his lackey's hands, so I doubt it."

"Anything else you can tell me?"

"Maxwell Peters," Duncan said. "Give me a pen and paper and I can write out his bank account numbers where The Baker receives payments for his hits."

 

John wasn't expecting any of this. Of course, Sherlock obsessed over the message. There was nothing off about that. Then he raced around for twenty minutes, making calls to his brother. Perfectly normal Sherlock behavior. 

But then he sat in a chair next to Molly's bed and didn't move. Were this any man other than Sherlock Holmes, John would've sworn that he rushed preparations so that he could sit by her side, waiting but ready. Logically, he couldn't do anything for her, and only the foolish notion of sentiment led people to sit by sickbeds of the unconscious. 

And Sherlock Holmes had no sentiment.

Yet there he sat for over an hour.

"Sher-Sherlock?" Molly said slowly. "John?"

"Molly, how do you feel?" John asked.

"Dry."

"Drink this," he said as he handed her a glass of water. "Slowly. Sips."

"Where is she?" she asked.

"She's gone," Sherlock replied. "Gone before we got here."

"Must've put something in my tea," Molly said. "She came in with some pretty bad injuries. Through-and-through bullet wound and several slashes from a knife. Lost some blood but patched herself up some. I was surprised she made it here."

"I said you need to sip that," John said.

Molly obliged.

"She's O positive, dunno if that helps," she continued. "Had Samuel put together the supplies and Mrs. Hudson picked them up for me. I tried to remember her injuries, distinctive marks, you know? But..."

"You're having trouble remembering?" Sherlock prompted. "She did the same to me."

"She's had surgeries, some to correct scars and revise tissue damage, and more than one mole or birthmark removed. But I can't remember where."

"What about the injuries she had today?" John asked. "You remember anything about them?"

"She must've been wearing protective gear because she had bruising along her torso that I've only seen on police who were shot wearing Kevlar. She was hit, through-and-through, in the shoulder, barely missing the artery. I swear that woman must be the luckiest person alive."

"Did she threaten you?" Sherlock asked.

"No, she said she had information about Moriarty's network. Said something like, Sherlock can be alive without you dying or something like that. Figured you'd want to know, so I – "

"Hang on," John interrupted. "What does that mean? 'Sherlock can be alive without you dying?'"

"Never mind," Sherlock replied.

"No, I mind. I mind a whole hell of a lot. What does it mean?"

"Very well. Moriarty said either I jump off the building, or his well-placed assassins would murder you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. He didn't mention Molly by name, but I have no doubt in my mind that Moriarty's network would target her as well should they discover that I'm alive."

"Even though the man who gave the order is dead?" Molly asked.

"Foolish, but still entirely likely."

"You're telling me that the reason you faked your death was to save us?" John asked. "Why didn't you tell us?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I did say so, John, when we were out in Salcombe."

"You said three assassins would kill three people, you never said it was Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and me!"

John wasn't sure if he should be angry or grateful. On the one hand, Sherlock had faked his own death to save John's life; on the other, the man was being a complete prat. 

"Now is not the time," Sherlock said. "So The Engineer convinced you to help her without threat. What else do you remember?"

"She was here a while. I'm used to working on the dead. I offered her something to eat after, she was looking pale even with the transfusion. She must've slipped something in my tea, because the next thing I remember is you two in my room."

"She left and took the library bust," Sherlock said. "And we're going to get it back."

"What's with that?" John asked. "Did she say Elizabeth the First?"

"You are the one who put me onto it, John," Sherlock replied. "Your investigation into that a break-in."

"Yeah, I - how do you know that?"

"You chronicled the events in your journal," Sherlock replied. "I saw the picture and recognized the bust from the library. You also mentioned the Wilder Shoppe and its owner, Anthony Wilder, who recently was abducted. No news as to the reason for his kidnapping, but when he reappeared, he was interviewed by Lestrade."

"Greg didn't mention anything about this," Molly said. "And I spoke to him just yesterday."

"What is odd here is not your lack of knowledge, but rather that a Detective Inspector focused on homicide interviewed a kidnapping victim with no exigent circumstances," Sherlock said briskly. "Why would that happen?"

"Greg probably looked into it because he put me onto the original case," John replied. "He actually cares about the people around him."

"So you think shop owner was abducted over the bust, too?" Molly asked. 

John said, "According to The Engineer, it's one of four."

"James Moriarty used the busts to store sensitive data," Sherlock replied. "He must've distributed them, leaving them in the care of people that had reason to fear him, even in death."

"Then how is it that one was sold in some shop and another wound up in at the library?" Molly asked.

"Irrelevant. We need to steal the bust back. Shall we?" Sherlock asked.

 

Sebastian Moran was facing the worst streak of luck he'd ever known. The warehouse trade-off fell apart. It went from a simple payoff to a firefight, and he got shot during his escape. By the time he'd come-to after his medical care, Brown, Clay, and Spaulding had gone offline and somehow fallen into police custody. All this in two days!

His remaining assets, the Burnsider twins, ran a clever operation for years, but they were never criminal masterminds, which made them perfect for Moran's employ. Yet after he called them demanding they turn in the fruits of their labor, the two louts brought three hostages, bound, gagged, and blindfolded. 

"Do you have sand in your ears?" Moran asked. "I asked you to bring the goods. Who the hell are they?"

"Your man Spaulding said we'd be secure," Erin said. "Gave us all the assurances."

"And?" Moran asked.

"And now he's in police custody," Aaron replied. "Because the prat was wrong! Not only did someone find us, she broken in to the facility and made off with everything!"

"The bust?" 

"She got it," Erin said. "Took the whole thing, ditched the tracking devices I'd planted. We've no way to find it or her."

"Spaulding's solicitor contacted me," Aaron added. "Told me the woman who did him in was the same one who attacked you lot at the warehouse."

"The same woman?" Moran repeated. "No, can't be."

Erin said, "To be clear, this mess isn't on us. We – "

"Enough," Moran interrupted. "If it's true that there's a broad out there crazy enough to attack me and a small army at Ross's warehouse only to go after you lot the next day, then I assure you, there isn't a thing the likes of you could do to stop her."

"Not for lack of trying," Erin asserted. "I managed to slash her with my knife, and Spaulding shot her."

"I take it you two are at least looking for this mystery woman?"

Aaron nodded, yes. "So is all of Scotland Yard, come to that."

"Then there's no chance of her being one of these fine specimens here?" 

"Oh, hardly," Erin replied. "Sebastian Moran, meet Victoria Hatherley, Helen Raylott, and Pamela Leavitt. These fine ladies are all intimately familiar with our wayward busts."

"Is that so?" Moran said softly. "And you brought them here to me?"

Aaron replied, "I never like showing up empty handed, especially not after you went to all that trouble for us."

"Tell you what. You leave these ladies for a bit of a chat with me and go on looking for our mystery woman. Anything you find on her, you report to me as soon as you get it. Once I have those busts back, you're debt is cleared. Any questions?"

Both shook their heads, no. Then they scarpered, and Moran turned his attention his three captive guests.

 

John watched as Sherlock ran a number of odd experiments. He rambled at length about how the "proper equipment" at Bart's would be more efficient, but he devised alternative tests that produced apparently equivalent results. 

"I'll need urine," Sherlock said. "Now."

"There's no way that's going to happen," John replied.

"I'm asking for urine, not your progeny."

"I draw the line at peeing on command!"

"Molly!" Sherlock shouted. "I need urine!"

"There's plenty of horse urine in the cupboard!" she yelled back. 

"Sorry, did she just say horse urine?" John asked. "In our cupboard?"

"Urine has many useful properties, Doctor Watson," Mycroft said as he entered the room. "Certainly seems reasonable to store it."

"Ah, dear brother, you're just in time," Sherlock replied.

Mycroft quickly looked over the kitchen experiments. "Analyzing soil samples, I see. Anything of interest?"

"The Engineer tracked all this in. Samples from her footprints were worthless, as you can imagine with all her blood everywhere, but there were a number of anomalies that I've isolated and analyzed... all of which point to a cemetery that contains both _cornus mas_ and _cornus florida_."

"Sounds dodgy," John said. "Who'd bury bodies in a corn field?"

"Please tell me that was a poor attempt at humor as opposed to a poor attempt at intelligence," Sherlock said. "I'm referring to flowering trees, one of which is rare in London."

"How rare exactly?"

"One cemetery in London presents with this combination of flora as well as the soil markers I've been able to isolate from her blood. She told us to find her and now I have."

"Couldn't you just say you know where she was before she came here?" John asked.

Mycroft snooped through some of the papers on the living room table with mild interest, actively ignoring his younger brother. 

"You need something, Mycroft?" John asked. 

"Hardly," Mycroft replied. "The way Sherlock went on about it, I thought you'd have The Engineer trussed in your flat. Apparently his penchant for the dramatic has caused him to jump the gun."

"Molly! John!" Sherlock yelled. "We've got a cemetery to visit. Mycroft, do show yourself out."

 

Moran appreciated the Burnsider's dedication in bringing him three hostages, but the last thing he needed was hostages to juggle. The only relevant information he required about the busts was their current locations. And what were the chances that these three knew anything about that?

So Moran untied them after informing them that any attempt at escape would result in broken bones. He felt a bit ridiculous threatening Victoria Hatherly, who was in her late seventies, but it was best to be thorough when corralling captives.

"No need to be shy. My chef said he'd bring us a fresh pot. We have all day and all night, if you like."

"And once you have what you want, what happens then?" Victoria asked.

He replied, "You all go home, love. Mind, you will be blindfolded and restrained before my driver can take you, but you will be returned without any harm done. Well, any more harm done anyway."

"Why are we here?" Victoria asked.

"I want you to tell me everything you know about the busts of Elizabeth the First," he replied. "I do mean everything, including when and where you last saw them, and any locations they may be today."

"I've no idea what you're talking about," Pamela replied. 

"Your lackeys just grabbed me because of my background in architecture and restoration," Helen added. "They kept asking me about some bust mold, but I'd never heard of it."

"Looks like you've got the wrong people," Victoria said. "Perhaps we should skip the tea and go home."

 

"You could have been nicer about it," John repeated. "More polite. Considered your words."

"What?" Sherlock asked. "What nonsense are you on about?"

"I'm talking about Molly!" John said. "Had you asked her instead of barking orders, she'd've come along."

"Molly must stop taking umbrage with efficiency," Sherlock replied. "Until then, her assistance will be more tedious than productive."

"Three hours ago, you were ready to commit homicide on her behalf," John replied. 

"I'm a sociopath, John. I'm always ready to commit homicide, and as for inflicting any bodily harm in the name of one individual or another, I favor those who are unconscious, catatonic, or otherwise un-annoying."

With that, Sherlock darted off between the tombstones. 

"The pathways exist for a reason!" 

"Sentiment!"

The consulting detecting arrived at a specific grave marker, and, reluctantly, John joined him. The headstone deviated from those around it in shape and inscription, as it only bore a name: Thatcher T. Ice.

"Did you know Thatcher T. Ice?" John asked.

"I doubt anyone knew Thatcher T. Ice. Clearly the name is a fake," Sherlock replied. "Add that to the fact that it's been installed in the past five years in an area that has otherwise been untouched in twenty. The deductions are quite clear."

"And here I assumed you came because of the mobile," John said, indicating the burner atop the headstone.

"A sufficient conclusion from an adequate deduction."

Sherlock snatched up the mobile and examined it. "Much like the last one," he observed out loud.

"The last one?" John asked. "What last one?"

"She left me a similar phone in the lost in found of a library," he replied. "Identical operating systems and hardware. All untraceable."

"What about the contacts?" John asked. "Did she leave a note or text?"

"Just a number."

Sherlock turned on the speakerphone and dialed out.

"Doctor Watson and Mr. Holmes," said The Engineer. "Let me guess, the anagram was a dead give away."

John blocked the mobile with his hand and mouthed, "Anagram?" to Sherlock.

"Really, John, Thatcher T. Ice," he replied with no regard for whispering. "Obviously an anagram of 'The Architect,' which was the assumed name of the asset referred to as Driftwood. We did learn this within the past forty-eight hours. Do keep up."

"Am I interrupting you two boys?" The Engineer asked.

"Your attack on Molly was highly inappropriate," Sherlock said.

"Would never had happened if you hadn't harassed the good Doctor Lanser," she replied. "Perhaps we should talk business now and quibble later? I have pressing news."

"Very well, I have what you want," Sherlock said. "Yet you have failed to provide your fee."

"I intend to hold up my end," she replied. "There is one small catch."

 

"I admire you, I do," Moran said. "Kidnapped by an escaped convict renown for his international criminal enterprise, and you're willing to keep the secret. Most would spill their guts and beg for their lives. Here's the thing, ladies, I'm privy to this secret, as James Moriarty and I were quite close. In fact, I helped him on this particular venture. Maybe what you need is to refresh your memories."

He lifted a drop cloth that covered his own bust of Elizabeth the First. 

"In fact, he gave me this," he continued. "Told me he'd be back for it eventually. Then he died, and here was I, not knowing where the others were or even where to look properly. Thought maybe he confided in others, but came up disappointed. Apparently at the end, I was the only one he ever trusted."

Complete silence greeted these words. Moran considered the three captives for a moment. 

"How about I get you started, then? Pamela, dear, seven years ago you were kidnapped. Do you remember why?"

Pamela shook with rage. "A man came to me. He had four busts and a design plan that outfitted them to hide compact hard drives that'd be undetectable when scanned. He wanted it to be so that if the bust was destroyed, the contents would survive. Every day he came to me and told me that I'd never go home unless I finished my task. So I did. And if I ever see that man again, I'll bash his head in."

"He's dead," Moran said simply. "But I appreciate the sentiment. Now, either of you ladies ready to chime in? The faster you answer, the faster you leave."

"I designed them, almost fifty years ago. Decorative busts, sized to fit in a variety of places. Ships, cargo holds, airplanes," Victoria replied. "Their purpose was circumventing taxes and tariffs. The busts were hollow, so they could fit diamonds and other valuables. Since the busts themselves were technically a decorative element of the shipping vehicle, they weren't considered proper cargo, no on really inspected them."

"You could've just said they were for smuggling," Moran replied.

Helen said, "About ten years ago, someone asked me to redesign hollow busts so they had a hidden compartment, something that would be difficult to detect with x-rays and the like. I thought it was an academic exercise until he paid me ten thousand quid and the plans disappeared." She turned to Pamela, "I'm so sorry for what happened to you, dear, I had no idea."

"Now that we're all being honest, tell me where your busts are now," Moran said. "Come on, now, I'll be getting my hands on them soon enough, with or without your help, but give me your help, you get to go home. So quickly now, each of you."

"I got rid of mine," Pamela said harshly. "Put it in the estate of my great uncle and had it carted off to some store in London so I'll never have to see it again."

Helen said, "Ask your lackeys, they pinched mine."

Victoria said, "Five years ago, I put it on display in the Rare Books and Music section of the British Library. Go on and see for yourself."

"Ah, there it is," Moran said. "I knew about Miss Leavitt's little liquidation sale and the Burnsiders told me about Helen's, but they couldn't seem to find yours, Victoria. Not for lack of trying, mind. The British Library? Really?"

"Hiding it in plain sight is the only way to actually conceal something," she replied.

"On that, love, we can agree."

 

"You promised to deliver all four," Sherlock protested. "Not three, four! Without all four together, the data cannot be decrypted!"

"I'll need your assistance for obtaining the final bust," she replied. "Normally I wouldn't have need to ask, but the bullet wound I sustained has slowed me down. And Scotland Yard has been kicking over a lot of anthills trying to find escaped prisoners."

"Sent all your friends skittering back to the shadows?" Sherlock asked with venom in his voice.

"'Friends' is a generous word," she replied. "The only way to get the fourth bust is by working together." 

"Very well, but I want something in return. An answer. Colonel Lysander Stark. Clearly, you hadn't gotten the information you wanted, yet you killed him. Why?"

After a few moments of silence, The Engineer replied, "Now, now, now, Mr. Holmes. You of all people understand the nature of a question like that. I won't lie to you, but I also won't answer you. Not over a phone with at least one other listening. I'm sure there are dozens of more pressing problems that need dynamic - or possibly illegal - solutions. Text me the parameters, we'll call it a peace offering. Oh, and do keep your schedule free and the mobile. I'll ring you later with the details, and since you've been a sport about it, I'm willing to throw in an international assassin. How about get the bust and The Baker? Ring, ring."


	8. Four Strangers

Sebastian Moran waited until Henry Clemmons, his security man, gave him the all-clear signal. It was too late to bus the three captives anywhere without risking exposure, so they were having a bit of a sleepover in a small, locked office.

His phone alerted him to a message.

> FROM: Personal Alerts  
> MESSAGE: Maxwell Peters account frozen due to legal action. 

Moran stared at the message for a long time before pulling up a more detailed review of events on his computer. The Yard had frozen several of Maxwell Peters's accounts, but why? To them, he was just some rich bloke with trust issues. Anyone who knew otherwise wouldn't be stupid enough to blab, since the only way to know would be hiring The Baker for a hit. 

Before he could think any further, his phone went off again. The Burnsiders were ringing. 

"This better be good news," he answered.

"We've got Doctor Schelssinger here," Erin said. "She's not terribly fond of us and insists that I tell you."

"She wouldn't, would she? Is there any reason in particular you have my lovely wife?"

"Ah, well you did recently get shot, and we can't get you into a facility, not with the Yard trampling over everything. She's the only doctor we can trust right now."

Moran smiled. "Isn't that grand?"

"We're not close, it'll take us the better part of the night to get to you, but you'll have a checkup by this time tomorrow."

"Good, don't be stupid," he said as he hung up.

 

 **The next day...** John followed Sherlock into an internet cafe. The consulting detective examined each table. Then he darted to a booth where a young man waited. 

"Ah, welcome," the man said. 

"Who are you?" John asked.

"Call me Hacksaw," he replied. "You're John and Sherlock I hope."

"Hacksaw, the hacker?" John asked. 

"Don't look so surprised. From how I hear it, you two were very near to digging me up on your own."

"Where is The Engineer?" Sherlock demanded. "She's made promises."

"I don't know if you're aware, but she was shot and stabbed, what, two days ago?" Hacksaw replied. "Most people don't go running around with those kinds of injuries, but Wendy keeps her promises."

"Wendy?" John asked.

Hacksaw shrugged. "When we first met, she was going by Wendy. You can call her whatever you like."

"If she keeps her promises, then where is Sebastian Moran?" John asked.

"And where is that list she promised me?" Sherlock added.

"Hold your horses, will you? Wendy's working on Sebastian Moran's location from her recovery bed. And your list? Well, it's right here," Hacksaw replied, pushing a page across the table. "Now how about something to drink?"

Sherlock wasn't listening, of course. He read the page.

"Give me your mobile," he said to John.

"No."

"Now!"

John handed the phone over, and Sherlock typed furiously before handing it back.

"Now to business," Hacksaw said. "Wendy asked me to lay down some ground rules about Moran's capture over coffee and tea."

 

Lestrade locked his office door. Protective custody had arranged a secured screen meeting, and he had to be in his office for it. He did busy work until eleven o'clock, when his secure line lit up.

He answered it and was greeted with the face of a Indigo Kendall Berwyn.

"DI Lestrade?" she said.

"Kendall, good to hear from you," he replied. "How are you?"

"They've cleared me to go back to work," she replied. "They decided to dismiss the whole Isabelle Hennessy identity thing in exchange for my testimony about Cypress Hare and whatever I could give them on the woman who stole my identity and took over my job at the Yard."

"That's good. I had this set up because of your connection to the Leavitts. Did either one of them talk about a man named Richard Brook or James Moriarty?"

She shook her head, no. "Why do you ask?"

"We've recently connected Pamela Leavitt to Richard Brook, he willed her a few artifacts after his death."

"I didn't know Pamela very well, but the reason Samson hired Cypress Hare was to look into her disappearance seven years ago. She vanished for about four weeks, and when she returned she lied, saying she wanted to be free and impulsive. But she'd never elaborate, and she was never the same afterwards. Samson was desperate to know what happened to her, thought he could help her."

"So he thought she ran off?" Lestrade asked.

"No, actually, Samson was convinced she had been abducted. And it makes sense. Pamela has OCD, so she doesn't do impulsive. I looked into it myself, and usually when people run off they spend money. But she didn't tap her bank account, use her credit cards, nothing for four weeks. You think that this Richard Brook fellow was involved?"

"Not sure, but he did leave her a bust that's been connected to several other cases," Lestrade replied.

"Don't know if this helps, but Pamela is an artist. She sculpts, does pottery, creates molds."

"Could she make a bust?"

"Don't see why not. She also does cleanup, restoration, modification. Not sure if that's helpful or not."

"It is. Do you have a way to contact her? Samson couldn't help us, said she went off the grid a few days ago."

"Sorry, no. If her brother can't reach her, no one can."

Lestrade's phone bleeped with a text message.

> FROM: John Watson  
> MESSAGE: Use infrared scanner on 3265 Cowgate in Edinburg for concealed rooms Sebastian Moran

"Errr, Kendall, I've got to go," Lestrade said. "Thank you for your time."

 

Hacksaw drove John and Sherlock to a dodgy parking garage after receiving an urgent text message from The Engineer. John played along only because Hacksaw insisted they found Moran ready to flee the country. 

John felt the entire situation was ridiculous. A dead consulting detective, a medical doctor, and a hacker planned to stroll into a madman's lair and subdue him and his lackeys. Yet, here they were, exiting a stolen car in a darkened midlevel floor.

"You're late," a woman said. She stepped out of the shadows to join them. One of her arms was wrapped in a sling.

"Traffic," Hacksaw replied.

"Engineer?" Sherlock asked. 

"There's no time to waste, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson," she said. "I think Moran is ready to travel. We can't let him get away. He's got at least two hostages, and he's planning on moving them first. That means his lackeys are split up between him and the car. It also means that after the van leaves he's stranded because with every cop out there looking for him, he can't go far on foot."

"And how do you know this?" Sherlock asked.

"The only people who lived to see me into adulthood were trained as spies, you do the math," she replied. "I'm telling you, he's got half his usual muscle and no escape."

"Sounds perfect," John replied. "Except it seems to me that you're expecting us to just leave the hostages in the hands of Moran's minions in the van."

"Why shouldn't we?" Hacksaw asked. 

"Are they dead?" John asked. 

"Not as far as I know," The Engineer replied.

"Well, as I am apparently the only human being here today, I say we rescue them while they're still alive," John said. 

"You want to split up?" The Engineer asked.

"He's very moral," Sherlock replied. "But more than capable of shooting someone who needs shooting."

"Fine, fine! John and Hacksaw, go after the van. If the hostages need a doctor, then they have one. But the plan remains the same."

"How?" John asked.

"You two go after the van, but only after it leaves, obviously," Sherlock replied. "I suppose that means you and I will take down Sebastian Moran?"

"Satisfactory?" she asked.

"Acceptable," Sherlock replied. 

"Hang on, how are you two going to take down anyone?" John asked. "I'm the only one with a gun."

The Engineer smiled as she said, "Doctor Watson, you may be the only one with a gun, but we've all got weapons. I even brought this for Mister Holmes."

She handed Sherlock a metal baseball bat that John could've sworn she pulled out of mid-air.

"What about this one?" John asked, pointing to Hacksaw. 

Hacksaw produced a nightstick. 

"You better get moving," Sherlock commented. "Assuming that's the van."

"Yep," The Engineer replied.

John and Hacksaw followed the line of sight to see a white, unmarked van pulling away. 

"Let's go!" Hacksaw said.

Then he and John ran for it. As they reached the ground level, John wondered how a hacker managed to stay in shape. 

"Do we have a plan?" John asked as they closed in on the van.

"There's a light up this way, we can get ahead of them there."

"That's your plan?" John asked. 

They reached the intersection, but the light was green. The van had less than a block to go, and it was going to make the light. 

"Be ready to pounce," he said. "I'll get the back doors, you take the front."

Hacksaw pulled out his phone and pushed a few buttons, and suddenly the light turned red in all directions.

The van stopped, and John made his move. He yanked the passenger door open and slid into the seat. The back portion of the van was sealed off from the front, so there was no way to tell else was in the van.

"Who the hell are you?" the driver asked. 

"Never you mind," John replied, pointing the gun at the driver. "How many are in this van?"

"Me and four others."

"Unlock the back door."

"No."

"Unlock the back door now!" John said. "Then you're gonna open your door and walk away. Leave your phone. You understand?"

The driver obliged, eventually fleeing out of the driver's seat. People behind them began to beep, as the light had turned green. So John took the wheel and drove, searching for a good place to pull over.

He didn't get far before he heard screaming from the back. Apparently Hacksaw had made it into the back with the hostages. Maybe they had a guard with them?

Suddenly the rear doors burst open and a large man raced out of the back, running for his life. John recognized him in an instant: Sebastian Moran. But he was supposed to be back at the building with Sherlock and The Engineer. 

John pulled over immediately, getting ready to run after Moran if he had to.

"Help!" someone yelled from the back. "Help!"

For a few seconds, John struggled between capturing Moran and checking on the hostages, but he soon came to his senses and opened the rear doors. 

There were three individuals, unconscious and blindfolded, and Hacksaw had taken a nasty beating. 

"Help!" he repeated.

"Bullocks," John muttered as he stepped inside and pulled the doors closed behind him.

 

Sherlock Holmes was livid. He had taken out two guards with his bat and dragged them into a small, lockable office while The Engineer used her modified slingshot to hit the other guards with tranquilizer darts. Since she couldn't move anyone with her bad arm, Sherlock had to drag four additional men into the same office.

And for what? Sebastian Moran wasn't anywhere in the building. The only individual besides the guards was an older woman locked in a closet. 

"You said he was here!" Sherlock repeated.

"He was here," The Engineer replied. 

"No, this woman is here, that's hardly the same!"

"Her name is Doctor Schlessinger," The Engineer replied. "Isn't that right?"

"Yes," Schlessinger replied.

"You're Moran's wife, aren't you?" 

"I am, but only legally."

"Why are you here?" Sherlock demanded. 

"I came to London because Sebastian was in jail. It's the first real opportunity I had to get him to sign the divorce papers. My lawyer said it would all be settled in a week or two, but then he broke out and got himself shot. I'm a doctor, I couldn't just let him die," she replied. "And even if I could, they would've shot me if I didn't patch him up."

"I understand," The Engineer said. "Listen, you're safe. We've a few questions to ask you, and then we'll get everything else sorted. How does that sound?"

"I want to leave."

Sherlock produced a small pistol. "I'm afraid you'll have to answer our questions first. There's a lovely office over there that we can have a chat in, go on."

Schlessinger nodded and made her way into the office.

"If you had a gun, why did you use the bat?"

"I don't have any bullets," Sherlock replied. "So we have one distraught doctor, no Sebastian Moran, and no bust."

"She knows things. You go after her with me, and I promise you, we'll get The Baker and the bust."

"Fine, I'll entertain the idea."

"See if you can find her bags. She must have luggage of some kind."

"Raiding her underwear?" Sherlock asked.

"Trust me. I'll keep an eye on her."

Sherlock discovered three bags, one of which contained revolvers. By the time he analyzed them, John and Hacksaw returned with the van.

"Moran got away," John said. "Sorry, he busted Hacksaw here pretty bad, and the three hostages are all sedated. We brought them back with us in the van just in case."

"We've got Moran's wife," Sherlock replied. "Apparently, she has information, which might lead us to the bust."

"You gonna complain about it or help me?" The Engineer asked. "You alive there, Hacksaw?"

"I'm fine," he mumbled. 

With that, Sherlock and The Engineer joined Schlessinger in the office-turned-interrogation room. 

"Where is your husband?" Sherlock asked. 

"He took the van, said he was heading for some private plane."

"You were in Germany before all this. You come to England to visit your darling husband, and not two days later, he escapes. Hardly a coincidence."

"I'm sure it's not," Schlessinger said sadly. "But I didn't help him, if that's your next question, and I don't know where he is. The only reason I'm only married to the man on paper."

"You know, I do believe that," The Engineer said quietly. "Maybe we should move on, then, to another person of interest. I know you have information on Maxwell Peters."

"I'm afraid you're mistaken."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"Maxwell Peters, also known as The Baker. Assassinated many, many people," The Engineer said.

"Maybe I heard something like that on the news."

"That could explain it. What it doesn't explain is why you have sentinels reporting back to you with anything related to The Baker or Maxwell Peters. That makes it sound a bit more... personal."

"I will tell you everything, but please, if my husband discovers us, he'll kill us all," Schlessinger said. 

"There's no fear of that," Sherlock replied. "Our friends chased him off and stole his transport. He's likely hiding his face from cameras in some sewer."

"Go on then," The Engineer added.

Schlessinger took a moment to regain her composure. Then she said, "My husband, Sebastian Moran, is a criminal. He's been a criminal for a long time, but it was only recently that anyone was able to charge him with something. He kidnapped two people and held them for information... apparently, they got away. They were going to testify. I thought all this would be over, finally."

"And what's this to do with Mr. Maxwell Peters?" Sherlock asked.

"There reason he's gotten away with so much is his aliases. When we were first married, he was this man of the Royal Marines. Oh, he'd done terrible things in the name of keeping good people safe, but that didn't bother me. Then things happened. He'd come home with an injured 'friend,' with some cock-and-bull story about how he got three gunshot wounds. I won't lie about this. I did patch them up. I'd pull out bullets and sew up knife wounds. Sometimes on other people, but most of the time, they were his injuries. I never reported it to the police. At first I did it because I cared for him, because I wanted to keep him out of trouble. But then later, I was just too afraid. He didn't trust me, I could tell as much, since he lied to me about what was going on. I actually believed him when he insisted that I shouldn't have to clean up after I administered medical aid. Even when I dug bullets out of him, and he was in no state to tidy. He told me I'd done more than enough. Truth was, he didn't trust me to dispose of the evidence. Probably assumed that one day I'd hand over the bullets to the authorities."

"What did you mean before when you said 'aliases'?" The Engineer asked. 

"Like I said, he didn't trust me with the evidence, and he certainly didn't trust me with the money. He has all kinds of false identities with their own accounts. Nothing too suspicious, mind you, he's quite good at keeping his false names rich but not too rich. I tried to keep up with him, figure out where all the money came from, but he caught me. He was furious, but so was I. I spun some lie about how I knew he was cheating on me and that was that. We became officially estranged. He left Germany and didn't come back for years. He changed his aliases and moved his money around, except for one: Maxwell Peters. Please, my husband is already an international criminal, there's no need to add to his notoriety. Not while he's at large. Once he's in custody, then all this... I can help."

"I know how difficult this must be for you," The Engineer said with sympathy. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "One of the reasons you're not in police custody is that we have reason to believe someone inside the system smuggled him and four others out. We can't put you at risk."

"I've gotten good at hiding," Schlessinger said.

The Engineer ignored her. She turned to Sherlock and said, "You know what I'd ask Moran if he were here right now? Why revolvers?"

Schlessinger repeated, "Revolvers?"

"The Baker's methodology requires thirteen bullets per hit, regardless of the number of targets," Sherlock explained. "Revolvers generally have a maximum load of six bullets."

The Engineer added, "Rather annoying number, isn't it? I mean logistically speaking, specifically bullets. If he used any other kind of handgun, all he'd need is a second clip or a second gun, but The Baker exclusively kills with revolvers. Don't get me wrong here, the man has great taste in weapons, but the numbers don't add up. You think maybe he's bored and needs a challenge?"

Schlessinger considered the question for a moment. She replied, "From the things Sebastian has said to me about similar things, I think it's more to do with the shell casings. That'd be my guess, anyway."

"Funny, that was mine as well. Especially after a weapon was recovered in the USA after one of The Baker's hits. A late fifties Smith and Wesson Model 19, thirty-eight special. Beautiful weapon. Badly damaged," The Engineer said.

"Why would Sebastian leave behind a weapon like that?"

"Obviously he didn't leave it," Sherlock replied. 

The Engineer said, "It was lost to him. Found the sewers months later. No usable evidence, of course, but four spent shells in the barrel. The type and caliber matched a local homicide."

"I've no idea what you're on about," Schlessinger said. "But you must think I'm think if you want me to believe that. Finding a gun in a sewer? Am I to believe it was flushed down the toilet?"

"It's funny," The Engineer replied. "Thirty-eight special seems to be The Baker's caliber. The man's a good shot. That's how they identified the thirteen bullet wounds as a signature instead of a byproduct of nerves. This wasn't the work of some scared chump mowing down one or two or three random people. No. This was the work of a vicious killer who enjoys inflicting pain so much that taking the kill shot just isn't enough for him. The bullets are his form of torture."

"Please, stop," she said quietly. "I can't listen to this."

Sherlock watched The Engineer and Schlessinger closely. The doctor expressed a complex array of emotions that Sherlokc usually regarded as boring. John was better with that nonsense. He had already deduced what The Engineer was implying, but he was at a loss in terms of facts. So he turned to the bag of revolvers he discovered earlier. 

"Interesting," the consulting detective said. "These are your belongings."

"How do you know that?" Schlessinger asked. 

"It's that or your husband packs a makeup kit that would put most clowns to shame," Sherlock replied. "Plus surgical gloves."

"Fine, that bag is mine, what of it?"

"Minebea New Nambu M60, FN Barracuda, and Ruger Security-Six. All thirty-eight caliber revolvers," Sherlock replied. "All wrapped up in this bag."

"Sebastian told me he needed to unload his weapons, retire The Baker. He said if I didn't take them he'd use them on me. I believed them."

The Engineer cut Sherlock off before he could reply. She said, "You asked me before if I expected you to believe the other gun was flushed down the toilet. It wasn't. See, The Baker assassinated two people, the Cassidys, but apparently was unaware that they'd dealt with gun-wielding thugs before. Neither one had any fear fighting back. One of them knocked that gun out of The Baker's reach, and they kept the killer busy as the third intended victim ran off with the gun. In the end, The Baker killed two, but the third got away." 

Her behavior was curious to Sherlock. She got closer to Schlessinger but kept her words casual as she continued, "But what was I to do with a gun? I was afraid it'd just explode in my hands, so I chucked it down the first sewer grate I saw. Didn't even stop. Just threw it like it was a grenade."

Schlessinger became still and silent. Sherlock saw the mandibular action that indicated repression tactics. He also saw the slight reddening of the skin, indicating an increased heart rate. Yet the doctor maintained an outward appearance of calm.

The Engineer said, "So you see, Dr. Henri Schlessinger, I know Sebastian Moran is not The Baker. I know that he was not in my house on the day my parents were murdered. Again. He may be many things, but he's not stealthy. He sticks out. You on the other hand? Bind your chest down, scruff yourself up, and no one would be the wiser that you were a woman. Most assassins and serial killers are men, so the assumptions are all in your favor, and should anyone connect you to Maxwell Peters, well, you're married to your fall guy. Any dirty money or just plain dirt that comes back to you also goes right back to him. Any illegal activities you participated in, you did under duress. It's beautiful, quite flawless, really."

"You can't prove any of this," she replied stoically. "If you could've identified The Baker, you would've reported it. And while I don't know when those crimes took place, I'm sure I've got an alibi for at least one of them. I am a doctor, after all, and keep quite busy, as I am sure you could imagine."

"This is no court of law," Sherlock replied. 

"Maybe not, but you could've killed me ages ago, bragging about who you are and who you think I am. Maybe you're not police, but it's clear you're desperate for proof."

"You're not alive for proof," Sherlock replied. "You're alive because you have vital information. Given your displayed propensity for lying and falsifying your emotions, I imagine you're more involved in Moran's Transmigration work. After all, many of his devotees were reborn in Germany, where you happen to live and work."

Schlessinger lunged for her bag, knocking The Engineer sideways and crashing into Sherlock. She had remained so still that he hadn't expected her to strike, and it dawned on him that the dead shot assassin was inches away from her favorite three guns. 

CRACK!

John Watson had come in from the other room with Sherlock's baseball bat. The single strike bowled Schlessinger over. The Engineer swooped in with zip ties and restrained her.

"Well struck John," Sherlock said.

But something was wrong. John collapsed sideways into the wall, as if he'd been injured. 

"John? John!" Sherlock said as he helped him to the ground.

Sherlock felt a sharp pain in his neck. He touched it with his fingers to discover it was a tranquilizer dart.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked The Engineer.

"Next time we meet, don't invite your brother," she said harshly. "Till we meet again."

She deliberately placed a bust of Elizabeth the First directly in front of Sherlock. He could feel the tranquilizer pulling him under.

"John... he's..." he tried to speak.

But his body gave out, and Sherlock Holmes blacked out. The last thing he heard was the sound of sirens approaching.


	9. Home

John woke up at Saint Bart's with Honeycutt staring daggers at him. He tried to do a quick self-assessment, but as soon as he moved, Honeycutt paged the nurse. 

"Where am I?" John asked.

"You are back at Saint Bart's," she replied. "You know, this is the second time in less than a week that you chased after a killer while in protective custody. Are you mad?"

"Why am I here?"

"You were found unconscious at the scene of a crime," Honeycutt said. "You remember any of this?"

"Not really."

The nurses came into the room and began asking him questions about how he felt. 

"I'm fine," he kept saying.

"Are you sure?" Lestrade asked from the doorway.

"Greg?"

"Damn right."

Honeycutt and Lestrade exchanged a significant glance before Honeycutt bowed out.

"So, I've set up a whole thing to get Sebastian Moran out of Edinburgh on your information, but I was pulled off of that because you were found unconscious in a dodgy building with six injured guns-for-hire and three kidnapped women," Lestrade said casually. "Pretty odd, since Honeycutt and Davidson were outside 221 B and insisted you and Molly were both at home."

"Molly is at home, as far as I know," John replied. 

"Don't get smart with me John Watson. You've any idea what I've done to try and keep you safe? I know you miss Sherlock, but there's no reason for you to be running around like a madman catching decapitators and assassins for us. You're gonna get yourself killed doing this. You get that?"

"Assassin?" John repeated. 

"Don't play dumb. We found three revolvers and luggage not five feet from you. We're double checking ballistics, but Anderson is pretty certain two of those guns killed the Wendells. If you had a lead on The Baker, why didn't you tell me?"

"Honestly, I had no idea," John replied. "I was meeting with the woman who impersonated Indigo Kendall Berwyn. She said she had information for me, but she wouldn't give it to me over the phone and wouldn't meet if I had officers following me around."

"Information about what?" Lestrade asked.

"I texted it to you, about Moran's Edinburgh hiding place."

"Right, you did. Then what? You just happened to bump into The Baker?"

"Apparently."

"John, this isn't funny! You were lucky that whoever did this to you just hit you with a sedative."

"Ahh, that's what happened. I guess that makes sense. Did you get her?"

"The person who impersonated Berwyn?"

"No, Doctor Schlessinger, The Baker," John replied. "You said you had her guns."

Lestrade couldn't speak for several minutes. 

"Greg?" John prompted.

"Henri Schlessinger?" he finally said. "Wife of Sebastian Moran? She's the bloody Baker?!"

"Yeah, I reckon. I thought you knew. You said - "

"We found the revolvers," Lestrade interrupted. "They're the same make and model as some of The Baker's weapons. And I asked myself, who would John Watson wind up unconscious for, given that Moran is out in Scotland? It wasn't a huge leap to The Baker. How do you know it's Schlessinger?"

"She was there and basically admitted it," John replied. "Please tell me you have DNA or fingerprints or something."

"It's been less than six hours," Lestrade said. "We haven't even confirmed the ballistics yet, but Anderson said we had DNA and fingerprints on the gun and the bullets. I'll tell him to check it against Schlessinger."

John felt very guilty. "Listen, Lestrade, can I tell you something off the record?"

"I suppose."

"I found out why Sherlock jumped off that roof."

"You did?"

"Moriarty said if he didn't jump, he'd kill me, Mrs. Hudson, and you."

"Wait, what?"

"He did it to save us, and I figured you should know."

"How did you come to this?" Lestrade asked. "I mean, did he leave a note or something?"

"After a fashion," John mumbled. 

Lestrade took a minute. "So, you spoke with our Berwyn impersonator. Did she tell you how she found Sebastian Moran? Anything like that?"

"I don't wanna say she found him until we know she has," John replied. "But no, she didn't mention how. I just passed the information on."

"Right, well the doctor's ready to kick me out," he said. "Do us a favor and stop being stupid, John."

"I will."

Lestade hesitated before he asked, "What do you mean, after a fashion?"

John's heart rate increased. He was about to do something that Sherlock wouldn't like.

 

 **Two days ago in London**. The Burnsider twins waited in the flat of Joseph Riley-Bailey, who had gone on vacation just two days ago. They preferred squatting to hiding out, so as long as they could find an out-of-town mark, they'd borrow a home for a few days at a time. 

Someone knocked on the door: two, three, two, three. 

"It's her," Aaron whispered. 

Erin opened the door and let The Engineer slide past her.

"Are you okay?" Erin asked. "You got shot."

"Yeah, I should've drugged Spaulding," The Engineer replied. "I'll live. You and Aaron okay?"

"I'm fine," Aaron replied. "I'm not crying over Clay or Spaulding, but getting both of them arrested has bullocks up out plan. You need to give us that bust back."

"That would be the worst idea," The Engineer replied. "Mark my words, you turn up with that bust, Moran will figure us out, find the tracker, and kill both of you."

"Then what do we do?" Aaron demanded. "If we walk in there with anything GPS enabled, his men will toss it or shoot us. Or both."

"What if the person with the tracker has no agency? You know, is no threat whatsoever?" The Engineer asked.

"Like who?" Erin asked.

"A hostage. Someone tied up, blindfolded."

"Right, one problem," Aaron replied. "Moran isn't asking us for hostages. He wants the busts."

"Then give him bust hostages," The Engineer replied. "Helen Raylott. Kidnap her."

"Except we already stole her bust," Erin said. "What sense is there in that?"

"This isn't about sense. This is about not showing up to the man that got you both out of jail empty-handed," The Engineer replied. 

"Then let's get the old lady," Aaron replied. "She's a better target."

"And how will you explain that out of the four people that have busts, you managed to hone in on the one whose bust is unaccounted for?" she asked. "You guys need to make it look like you don't know as much as you know. You stole Helen Raylott's bust, but maybe she has another. How are you to know? And Victoria, the old lady, she might have a bust as well."

"Pamela Leavitt," Aaron added. "We should take her, too. If we're pretending we don't know who started off with busts and whose busts wound up where."

"That's exactly what we're doing," Erin said.

"Good. Three hostages, one tracking device," The Engineer replied. "I've got your new identities. Canada is your destination. There's just one outstanding point."

"You mean besides the abduction of three women and putting a GPS device on one of them to dupe Sebastian Moran?" Erin asked. 

"Yeah, I need Schlessinger."

"The wife? How do we get her?"

"The man was shot, I'm sure he could use a doctor. Just figure out a way to get her there."

"You're telling us, after all this, you're willing to risk Moran for Schlessinger?"

"I'd rather have her than Moran," The Engineer replied. "My reasons are my own."

Aaron and Erin took a moment deliberating. 

"We'll do it," Aaron said. "But we're gonna need more money for our new lives in Canada."

"I'll make arrangements. Message me when you have a location, even if Schlessinger isn't there yet. Message me again when the good doctor has joined the fray."

 

 **Today in London**. The Engineer watched Hacksaw sleep for about fifteen minutes. She had slipped him a mild sedative, but plenty of people could tolerate that dosage. She technically couldn't confirm he was out, but she had enough information to suspend her disbelief. 

So she administered a second dose to Schlessinger, who was heavily restrained and still in the van, which was parked inside the safe house's garage. Before she could return to her couch for a kip, her phone bleeped. 

"You got Rachel," she said. 

"Rachel? Is that your name now? I thought you went by Liz."

"Kendall?" The Engineer asked. "I thought we agreed to suspend contact."

"We did, but something came up. DI Lestrade and I just had a special chat arranged by my protective custody. He asked me all kinds of questions about Pamela Leavitt and her brother and their connection to James Moriarty, aka Richard Brook."

"When did this happen?"

"I called as soon as I could," Kendall replied. "And it gets worse. I'm not technically working at the Yard yet, but I was cleared for duty. A guy named Stanley contacted me about some IT forensics they're running on the freaking Wilder Shoppe. They found all the alterations that Hacksaw did, and they know it's him because he reused some old code."

"What alterations?" The Engineer asked.

"You know, he covered the Leavitts tracks."

"Oh, right. Well, he's off the grid. It should be fine, but thank you for letting me know."

"No problem."

"But I have to ask another favor."

"I can't."

"It's completely legal," The Engineer said. "Just handing off a new burner mobile and a quick message. Not a threat, a message. I promise."

"I can do that, but the Yard is still following me, so they'll know."

"As far as they're concerned, you're just visiting the folks who helped bring you home."

After they finished up their conversation, The Engineer took out her electronics and frequency scanner and swept over Hacksaw, and everything he brought with him. He was clean. 

She then swept Schlessinger. At first glance, she was clean, but after a more thorough exam, The Engineer discovered a tiny tracker behind her ear. 

She had to assume it was active, which meant Moran probably was tracking her now. Breaking it would be too suspicious, so she needed to tack it somewhere. But it was half pass two in the morning, who could she tag?

Thinking quickly, she went outside. No one was out in the semi-suburban area, but a handful of animals were about, including one white house cat that perched nearby. The cat was friendly enough, so she slipped the tracker on the inside of its collar. 

But that was only half the problem. This safe house was compromised. She scribbled a hasty note to Hacksaw and took the van.

Then she called the only person on Earth that she trusted. 

"Lanser," she answered.

"Aunt Lily," The Engineer said. "I'm coming to you right now."

"It's three in the morning."

"My safe house was compromised," she replied. "Please tell me you can take her a few hours early."

"Uh, sure, if I have to. How far out are you?"

"Six hours."

"You sure?" Lanser asked. "Listen, you haven't slept in at least a day. You were shot and stabbed. Take your time. Don't rush, don't get pulled over."

"I'm on the last of my sedatives," The Engineer replied. "And as you laid out, the end of my rope, but don't worry. I'll get there in one piece. And I'll take a nap as soon as I do."

"Love you Shannon."

"You too Aunt Lily."

 

 **The next morning at 221 B Baker Street.** Molly enjoyed her morning tea with a bit of entertainment, as Sherlock played his violin. He had been anxious about everything that had happened with The Engineer and John, and after Lestrade called to check up on Molly, the consulting detective began to play. He played the whole night.

Someone rang the doorbell. Molly checked out the window.

"Hide," she said to him. "We've a guest."

"Hide? Where? I can't get to the basement without going past the door."

"I dunno, John's room! My room! Just hide!"

Sherlock disappeared into her room, and Molly immediately regretted the suggestion. 

"You've a visitor, dear," Mrs. Hudson said. "A Miss Berwyn."

Indeed, the young woman was right behind Mrs. Hudson. As soon as the introductions were made, Mrs. Hudson took the tea tray downstairs. 

"Hello, I'm Molly. You're Miss Berwyn?"

"Yeah, I'm here to see you, John, and Sherlock."

"Uhm, well, John is at the hospital and Sherlock is dead."

"I know he's not."

"He is."

"It's all right Molly," Sherlock said as he reappeared from her bedroom. "I take it you are the read Indigo Kendall Berwyn?"

"Yeah, that's me."

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked. 

"The Engineer asked me to pass this along," she replied. She handed him a new burner mobile. "And to tell you that if Mycroft comes after her again, she'll make sure everyone knows you're not dead."

"Does she honestly believe I have control over my brother?" Sherlock asked.

"I think she honestly believes you have control over your mouth," Kendall replied. "Don't tell your brother about your next meet, then he won't be able to follow you like he did last time."

"He didn't follow us the last time," Sherlock protested. 

"Didn't he?" she asked. "If he didn't, how did he manage to get you and the bust out of that crime scene before the cops showed up? The response time was less than two minutes."

"Fair enough. Did she mention anything about the USBs she promised me? She left the bust but not the data."

"All she told me was that she planned on making good on her promise as soon as she recovered from her injuries. Just make sure your brother and his black helicopters stay at home."

 

 **One day later...** The Engineer picked Hacksaw up in a compact car, offering him the keys.

"This your way of saying sorry for leaving me asleep at a compromised safe house with nothing but note?" he asked.

"Yeah, is it working?" The Engineer asked. "You can drive."

Hacksaw took the wheel begrudgingly. He asked, "Why didn't you wake me?"

"Because I didn't have another a safe house. I had to take the prisoner straight to my contact, and that contact shoots new people dead on sight."

"You're yanking my chain," he said.

"I wish. Look, I couldn't take you with me," she replied. "I am sorry. I did leave you the phone and the note."

"Tell you what. You wanna make it up to me? Tell me something personal. We've known each other a decade, surely that's enough time to earn one personal fact."

"Personal like what?" she asked. 

"I dunno," he said. "I've heard you put on countless accents. Where are you really from? I mean, where's home?"

"Home?" she repeated. "To me, home was never a place. I've lived plenty of places, but you already knew that. But home? Home was someone who loved me with everything he had. He saved me, even though it destroyed him, and he kept saving me. He sacrificed everything to keep me safe, to teach me, to love me. In a lot of ways, he was my father."

"So your Dad was home?" he asked. "I mean, 'was.'"

"Yes," she replied. "The best man I've ever known. He was there for me until one day, bureaucracy and idiocy killed him and left me with his body to bury."

"Oh, I'm sorry," he said. "I did mean to dig something up."

"You didn't. It happened about four years ago."

"Begs the question," he said. "After a decade of nothing but mystery, why tell me this now?"

"I know you think I don't trust you," she said. "But that's not true. It hasn't been true for a long time. I just never had a chance to say anything before."

"Thanks, I guess."

"And for the record, this car isn't stolen," The Engineer said. "It's yours. Call it an apology/thank you gift. For all your help."

"Now you're really joshing me."

"I'm not."

They drove on, back to London.


	10. Last Bandit Standing

**One week later...** John Watson felt tremendously guilty. He and Sherlock waited in a dusty office-to-let that The Engineer had set up as their next meet, and Mycroft had joined them, regardless of the warning she sent. 

"Do relax John, I'll be in the other room, and I've left the black helicopters at home," Mycroft said. "Pip, pip."

He disappeared into the next room.

"She's late," Sherlock comment. 

"You know how last week I was at Saint Bart's?" John began. "Lestrade came to see me."

"That's odd."

"It's not. People visit friends in the hospital, Sherlock."

"Then why are you telling me?" Sherlock asked indignantly. 

"Because I told him that you were alive."

"You what?"

"I told Lestrade about why you jumped and that you were still alive," John repeated.

"Why on earth would you do that?" Sherlock demanded.

"Because he needs to know!"

"Are we interrupting?" The Engineer asked as she appeared with Hacksaw. 

"Avery Marie Roux," Sherlock said.

She smiled. "Avery Roux? Do you honestly think that's my name?"

"After what you put us through to obtain the un-redacted Pileus file, who else would you be?" John asked. "It was you that nicked the file from our flat, wasn't it?"

"Of course, but I've put people on to hundreds of cases that needed justice. That doesn't mean they've anything to do with me. Sherlock Holmes focuses on interesting, perplexing scenarios. As soon as I get boring, I get left behind; thus keeping him engaged is vital to keeping him on task. So maybe I am Avery Marie Roux, or maybe she's just another woman whose identity was convenient for me to steal so I could get what I want."

 

"What you want?" John repeated, rapidly becoming angry as well as confused. "If not your real name, if not the man who murdered your family, then what could you possibly be after?"

"Doctor Henri Schlessinger," Mycroft said as he joined them from the other room. "I'm assuming you kept her, which is why we can't seem to find her. And don't worry, I assured Sherlock that no government agency will attempt to detain you. For now. Though we might want Doctor Schlessinger for our own inquiries at some point."

The Engineer smiled. She spoke directly to John, as if she couldn't hear Mycroft. She replied, "What else could I be after? The international assassin who killed my parents. And all her secrets, too, of course. I want to dismantle her entire world and let her watch as her empire crumbles."

Sherlock smiled wickedly. "So you're not Avery Roux, you're Shannon Cassidy? It could almost be true, except for the Ghost Caller."

She stopped. Her face remained passive, but something about her reaction made John think she was surprised... shocked, even. Hacksaw picked up on the strange behavior as well. 

Suddenly, a recording began to play. It took John a minute to realize that Sherlock had the sound file on his phone.

_"Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?"_

_"A bad man has me locked up in his house. He wants to hurt me," a young girl whispered._

_"Do you know who the bad man is?"_

_"No, no. He hurt me and took me and put me somewhere dark. Please, please, please don't leave me here. Please."_

_"Can you tell me your name?"_

_"Gabriella."_

_"All right, Gabriella. We've identified your location from the phone line, and I've dispatched units. I know you're scared, but just stay on the line with me, okay?"_

_"Please don't. You can't leave us here!"_

_"Us? Are there others there with you?"_

_"Yes. We're all crammed into this tiny space, and it's cold and dark."_

_"Help is on the way. Can you tell me how many others are with you? Do you know their names?"_

_"Four."_

_"Four? You and four others?"_

_"I'm so cold."_

_"I know... help is on the way."_

_"I'm scared. Really, really scared," the little girl said. Her once-whisper was now much louder, and her anxiety was palpable._

Sherlock stopped the recording, but anyone could see that The Engineer was shaken from the moment it started. She recognized it.

"What I find interesting about this, the so-called Ghost Caller recording, is that the voice is identical to that found on another nine-one-one call from weeks prior," Sherlock said, relishing his words. "Perhaps it'd be best if we heard that one as well."

_"Help! My friend was taken. She was taken! By a man in a black hoodie and a red car. She kicked and screamed, but he took her anyway!"_

_"Please calm down. Can you tell me your name and your friend's name?"_

_"Her name is Gabriella. Please, she needs help!"_

The Engineer became very still, as if frozen with fear or rage, John couldn't tell which.

Sherlock began to pace as he spoke. "Both of these calls came in in 1991, approximately six weeks apart. Two weeks after the abduction call, The Baker murdered the Cassidys. Four weeks after that, Zenon Gibbs was taken in for the murder of five young girls, one of which identified as Gabriella Marie Kelso, who supposedly called nine-one-one. I say supposedly because the first responders found her body. She had been dead for two weeks. Thus, Ghost-Caller, catching her killer from beyond the grave. Except it wasn't a ghost, was it? It was you."

"Very astute. I see the merits of your name have been well-earned," she replied. 

"I don't get it," John finally spoke up. "How is the Ghost Caller Case connected to the Cassidys being murdered by The Baker? It doesn't make sense."

"Implications of kidnappings in America: Young female child abductions from middle class neighborhoods yield strong media coverage. Certainly this one qualifies. As this occurred prior to the establishment of the Amber Alert System and the incident was reported by a peer, the likely outcome would be media focus on the girl who witnessed the abduction and the families involved," Sherlock said. "Which is perfectly fine unless the child in question was supposed to be killed in a family massacre. In that case, the media may draw attention to her survival, which then leads to retaliation."

"That's ridiculous," John said. "Assuming this woman was Avery Roux, she was three when her family died, and no one knew that she survived. Do you really think someone recognized her from a photo in a newspaper from another country? This was back when the internet was barely out of its crib."

"Obviously, someone knew she survived and was looking for her," Sherlock replied. "I'm guessing they knew that they had the wrong people when they murdered the Roux family, so they allowed the youngest to survive to goad the real target into action."

"The real target being the asset codenamed Driftwood," Mycroft added. He spoke to The Engineer, "But you know him as The Architect."

"I had a birthmark," The Engineer replied, avoiding eye contact with Mycroft. "Eyebrow. Distinctive. I had it removed for apparent reasons."

"No doubt The Architect had you remove it after the Cassidys were murdered," Sherlock said.

"Does that mean... was that your first case?" John asked The Engineer. "The abduction and murder of your childhood friend?"

"Right after the murder of my adoptive parents. The Architect - if that's what you call him - he thought it best that I focus on something I could fix. Couldn't bring my parents back, so I decided to find my missing friend. Couldn't bring her back, either, but I get that man arrest, have his victims identified. But I couldn't go to the police. Not again. So he coached me on how to do it so the killer would be caught, and no one would care about whoever called for help."

"A false witness leading investigators to evidence vital in a conviction," Sherlock summarized. "Isn't that your signature?"

She smiled. "Serial offenders have signatures. I have a highly affective move I can use when I'm feeling uninspired. I'm sure you can relate, Sherlock."

"You solved a kidnapping and murder when you were ten?" John asked, still shocked.

"Obviously," Sherlock said. "You may be able to conceal yourself by assuming identities and years of continuous asset training, but even you had a childhood and history. You must've known someone would figure it out eventually, especially when you drew me into all this."

"Looks like you finally got one over one me," she replied.

Sherlock smiled.

"But if we're done wandering around the horror land that is my childhood, I believe we have a deal to conclude," she said. 

Hacksaw pulled four USBs out of his pocket and quickly handed them off to Sherlock.

"All four USBs from James Moriarty," The Engineer said.

BANG-BANG!

Sherlock stumbled sideways and dropped the USBs. He had been hit in the shoulder by a bullet. 

"What the hell?" John said as Mycroft went to his brother.

Hacksaw produced a Glock and pointed it straight at John. He was only a few feet away.

Bang! Bang! Bang! 

John flinched, and his heart raced. But he felt fine. He looked down and saw that he was completely uninjured. Hacksaw must be a terrible shot. And the Glock was at his feet.

He looked around and saw why. Hacksaw was on the ground, bleeding freely from a neck wound. But John hadn't heard another shot. 

As if to answer his question, The Engineer launched something from her slingshot that went right over his shoulder. John took cover.

"What the hell just happened?" he yelled.

"Blanks, John!" Sherlock replied. "Hacksaw didn't know he only had blanks!"

Before John could process anything, he caught sight of Sebastian Moran running straight for them. He reached for his gun, but it wasn't there. He must've lost it when he took cover. 

Sherlock and Moran collided.

BANG! 

Sherlock fired the Glock across Moran's face, and he was close enough to leave a contact burn. Moran blundered, covering his face. When he regained his footing, his eyes were oddly blank.

"You wanker! You dick!" Moran roared. "YOU BLINDED ME! First you took my wife, then you blinded me!" 

He began searching for his enemies, throwing around his weight. Even blind, John Watson didn't want to go up against a pissed of Royal Marine. So he snuck around him, grabbing Moran around the neck from behind. 

As it transpired, this was a terrible idea. John wasn't nearly tall enough to pull off the rear chokehold, and soon Moran was throwing him around while John desperately tried to maintain his hold. 

CRACK! Sherlock cracked the Glock against Moran's left knee. The large man buckled but kept fighting. 

Then he made an odd, bubbling kind of sound, somewhere between a cry of surprise and a whine. Then he fell forward, taking John with him. Blood spurted everywhere. 

"What just happened?" John demanded from Sherlock.

"Hit him and severed the axillary artery," The Engineer said. "The only kills hot I could get without risking your life. What's wrong with you, jumping on a man that size with a chokehold?"

John didn't reply. He was too busy bandaging the wound, applying a pressurized bandage. If she was right, that she hit the axillary artery, Moran would likely die in under a minute, but he had to try.

"Does the quiet mean that it's over?" Mycroft asked as he came back into the room. "I've put in a call for medical care for all of you."

"Not him," The Engineer said, indicating Hacksaw. "Let him die."

Sherlock swooped in and grabbed the USBs, all of which had been damaged during the fray.

"You knew," Sherlock said to The Engineer. "I saw the look on his face when he fired at John. He meant to kill him. He had no idea his gun had blanks. You knew he couldn't be trusted, so you changed his ammo. Tell me, why did you let him have the USBs? Or didn't it occur to you that a man willing to kill us would destroy the data we came to collect?"

"I didn't know," The Engineer replied. "I suspected, ever since Kendall called me about a chat she had with some detectives at Scotland Yard. They connected Hacksaw to the Wilder Shoppe because he hacked in to cover up the connection between the Leavitts and the bust and therefore James Moriarty. Idiot used his old code to do it."

"So what?" John asked. "Weren't you covering everything about the busts up?"

"Why bother?" she asked. "I wanted to get the USBs, who cares if some other person figures it out? And I didn't loop Hacksaw into the busts until after I got shot stealing the ones the Burnsiders were hiding. That was before I stole the one you lot pinched from the British Library, for your reference."

"No reference needed, I remember it quite vividly," Sherlock said with edge in his voice. 

"But I couldn't be sure. Hacksaw hacked a lot of crap in his day, maybe someone hired him for a hack, it happens. But then Schlessinger had a tracker, and he asked me to follow this through, so I took his bullets. Covered my bases. You're welcome, by the way, for saving John's life and your life. Again."

"Yeah, sure, thanks," John said. "Has anyone seen my gun?"s

"If you suspected him, why did he have the USBs?" Sherlock demanded again.

"I didn't, obviously," The Engineer replied.

She took out a box with a hard case, possibly a waterproof Otter box, but John couldn't tell. She tossed it to Sherlock, who glared at her in disbelief.

"Go on, count your payment," she said. 

Sherlock opened the box and checked the contents. "Good," he replied after a minute.

"I admit," The Engineer said. "This has all been quite amusing. And you did get one over one me, which is something most people don't survive, as exhibited by my old friend Hacksaw here. This has been a monumental day for me in a lot of ways. You know, I think I'm going to give you something that no one else has ever gotten from me."

"Don't bother," Sherlock replied. "You can't give me the truth, I've already taken it, Avery Roux."

"The truth? No, no, no Sherlock," she replied. "You are instrumental in getting me to the final person responsible for my family's death. Both of my families. And for that, Sherlock Holmes, I'm going to give you an opportunity."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You've reverse engineered my method, found people who have faked their own deaths, and infiltrated more than one criminal organization, not to mention the police. False flattery won't work on those of us who know your true body of work."

"You don't give yourself enough credit," she said.

"Says nobody, ever," John muttered. 

"See, unlike Schlessinger, The Baker, I knew who and where the man was. But getting to him without dying in the process? Nearly impossible. For that, I'd need him in the room with his guard down and that never happens," she explained. "Except when he's helping his younger brother."

BANG! 

John heard the shot and jolted, even though he knew that the gun hadn't been pointing at him. It felt like it took ages for him to see what happened.

Blood blossomed from the lower abdomen of Mycroft Holmes, who had managed to stay upright by grabbing the nearest wall. Sherlock raced over to his brother as Mycroft half-slid, half-fell to the ground. 

He vaguely registered that The Engineer unloaded the rest of the ammo, wiped down the gun, and tossed it in John's general direction. 

At least John knew where his weapon was now.

"My gift to you, Sherlock Holmes," The Engineer continued. "I'm giving you the chance to save your brother."

John heard her speak, but her words sounded muffled to him, as if she were trying to talk to them from a great distance. He wasn't sure when The Engineer vanished from the room, but in the next instant, she was gone. 

"John!" Sherlock shouted. "John!"

"We've got to stop the bleeding," John replied. "Give me something to stop the bleeding."

Sherlock obliged. John's hands slipped in blood as he put pressure on with Sherlock's bright blue scarf. The entry wound was what he'd expect from his own weapon with nine-millimeter bullets. He checked for an exit wound. There wasn't one.

Mycroft needed surgery. Now.

"Sherlock," Mycroft whispered. "She's not wrong..."

"You never know when to shut up, do you?" Sherlock replied harshly. "When you've been shot and blood is bubbling out of your mouth, it's a good time to stop talking."

"He's going to be fine," John said. "But you need to call for help and get out of here. You're still dead. And someone needs to look at your shoulder. Get back to Molly, we've still got all those medical supplies back at the flat."

"She's not wrong," Mycroft repeated. "I got... the Architect... killed."

"John, I..." Sherlock began. 

"Sherlock, GO NOW!"

Sherlock Holmes ran, leaving his bleeding brother in the care of Doctor John Watson.


End file.
